


Support

by Princess_Cocoa



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gen, Grieff, Terminal!Martin, Totally made-up disease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:00:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Cocoa/pseuds/Princess_Cocoa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not a linear process, this whole grieving thing. No; when dying, one tends to forget the set Kübler-Ross model. Sometimes anger comes after depression, sometimes begging comes after acceptance. Sometimes, Martin finds, emotions swoop in just as quickly as a tornado, and leave everything just as broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **I figured it was time to get one of my WIP's up, and this is it! Guess what! It's angsty. Who would've thought. Anyway...**  
> 
> **This story literally developed from four lines of dialogue that I've had in my head forever and probably won't even end up making an appearance with the way it's going haha. I do not have a set ending for it, though I think I have a basic outline so I will finish this, I promise.**
> 
> **First a disclaimer: as the tags stated, the disease in this is entirely made up by me to make it as perfectly whumpy as I desired. I do not live in Britain but the lovely hajimebassaidai has fixed one error regarding the NHS and from here on, I don't think there'll be any more. Feel free to let me know if there are though :)**

Martin will never understand how movies can be so irrevocably and hopelessly _wrong_. They’re full of hope, of set and unchanging deadlines, of complete support, of happy endings. His life is lacking in three of the four of these and pretty soon, he’s sure, it will be lacking in the fourth as well.

It’s not that he’s entirely hopeless personality-wise; at least, he wasn’t before. Had he been given a chance - some time to adjust, perhaps - he might have held onto some hope for his predicament. But that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it? Time.

Time is such an unruly and, frankly, horrifyingly short variable. It stretches on unerringly, completely unaware of the people swept up by its manic force. Some try to limit it - to break it into more manageable chunks. Ignorance is bliss, he supposes. He wishes, though, that he could do the same. He used to be able to. He used to be able to do a lot of things.

Like talk to people. He’s found himself so infuriatingly and insistently choked up and completely unable to voice what _has to be said_ that he feels he’ll never be able to do so. A lack of communication, of course, burns bridges, and Martin only has a precious few of those; though probably not for much longer. He feels as if he’s lost his chance at the comfort that he so desperately craves and seeks. He’s not sure he’ll ever get it back. He’s not sure he particularly wants to anymore.

And how, then, is he meant to have any sort of happy ending when all of these things are missing? He will be alone when he dies; that much, he’s been sure of for the past few weeks it’s taken him to process all that’s happening. It’s really one of the only things he _can_ be sure of at this point. It doesn’t sound like much, really, and that’s because it’s not. He hates to think about all the things he’s unsure of, but can’t seem to reign in his mind for long enough to stop.

Firstly: his disease. Only one doctor has been able to tell him exactly what it is, and even then he can’t tell Martin how to stop it now that it’s progressed so far. Apparently it’s a very interesting biological incident within the medical community. “It’s so rare,” the doctors and nurses say, “a real medical marvel that you’re even still alive,” they continue; as if he doesn’t exist, cannot hear the way they talk about him like he’s some specimen to be dissected.

Secondly: when, exactly, he’s meant to die. They’ve given him both months and days. They’ve given him hours and years. They’ve given him, in the end, such a combobulation of despair and hope that he’s simply learned not to feel anything anymore. It’s easier that way, he tells himself, even when he’s sitting at home alone gripping his chest painfully hard as if that action alone will keep all of his tamped-down emotions from tearing him apart.

Only then is he able to stop himself from continuing the list. Because now comes the harder, more painful thoughts. The thoughts of how many people will attend his funeral, how many people even care that he hasn’t left his small flat in days, how many people will care what killed him, how MJN will survive without him. He doesn’t like to feel so helpless.

Helpless. Now isn’t that a funny word? Certainly it indicates that humans have some semblance - some _iota_ \- of control over their lives. They don’t. At least not in Martin’s experience.

Sure, a person can decide where to work, who to marry, where to go for dinner: all the mundane decisions in a basic, mundane life. What humans cannot dictate is death. What humans cannot dictate is sickness. What humans cannot dictate is nature. And in the end, nature has the ability to pick up a person and swing them back and forth from it’s sharp, relentless teeth. Nature makes humanity helpless.

In the end, it’s only those who’ve gone toe to toe with it who can see the truth in such a statement.

The word disillusionment pops into Martin’s mind, and isn’t that another amusing part of the English language. That, in itself, suggests humans are always under some kind of spell - an optimistic glamour. He’s lived that life, he thinks, as he runs a finger gently over the framed photograph of the crew of MJN Air at one of the airfield’s Christmas parties. He used to live a life full of sunshine and happiness. It had its ups and downs but it never failed to keep him riveted and excited for more.

Disillusionment.

Yes.

He supposes he’s been disappointed with what his life has turned into. He's disappointed with his prioritizing - his desperate need to fly overcoming everything else. Finally, he’s disappointed with letting himself get roped into a job that won’t even let him pay rent, much less the ridiculous fees that going to the hospital and getting the superfluous yet extremely helpful extra items for his sickness costs. He can't afford a hot pack for when the full-body pain becomes too much, he can't afford extra tea or even more substantial food and, now that he can hardly get up enough strength to move things with his van, he can hardly afford his rent. Though, in all fairness, that’s not at all the fault of the crew.

Well.

Perhaps, in a way, it is.

Though that, as well, is not entirely fair. And even if it was, the last thing he wants to do is think ill of the single most accepting and caring family he’s had the opportunity to be a part of. Not after everything they’ve given him. Not with so little time left with them.

He puts the picture down and straightens his uniform. He’s not sure, at this point, how much longer he’ll be healthy enough to fly and that scares him more than anything. Because without flying and without MJN, where will he be?

Hopeless, helpless, unsupported, depressed. That is his future. The distant future, he thinks quietly (unconvincingly) to himself, as if a thought could be any quieter than the others. He closes his eyes. Breathes in, and then out. Opens his eyes.

He can do this. He has to do this. It’s the very least he can do. Fly until he’s told he can no longer do so. That was always his original plan - it’s simply been cut short by a few...decades.

His mobile flashes, alerting him to the fact that he should be leaving soon. Mustn’t let himself get too caught up in his predicament, after all. Not yet, anyway. He has an aeroplane to fly.


	2. Chapter 2

It had started with a headache. Despite how cliche that sounds, it's true. It wasn’t unusual for Martin to get headaches with how hard he works and what little diversity he gets in his diet. Though, if nothing else, Martin is a fighter; so he chose to push through the pain, even as it persisted.

He’d asked the students for some painkillers when it continued to come back over a span of multiple days. Eventually, though, he ran out of those and didn’t have the heart to ask for more. In all honesty, they’d been far less efficient as he’d kept taking them. Or perhaps, now that he looks back, they simply stopped working as the symptoms progressed. He can’t really be sure anymore - doesn’t really have the motivation to try to work out the timeline.

There is no doubt in his mind that his colleagues at MJN are confused. Maybe even concerned at this point. The first day he’d come in with a headache had earned him a snide yet joking comment from Douglas and extra-sugary tea from Arthur. Now, nearly five months later, they look as if they have no idea what to say.

He knows he looks pale and sickly. He knows they’ve noticed. He knows he’s only deteriorated since that first day. He doesn’t know what to say to get by - to assuage their fears. Usually saying something along the lines of “oh I’ve just had a headache for five months now” or even “I’ve just been stressed lately” is far too close to asking for them to worry, to be more diligent, to try to help him. They can’t help him now, at least, that’s what he’s been told.

With that in mind, the plan that he’s decided on is simply not to tell them the truth. As soon as he’s deemed unfit to fly by his doctor, he’ll resign and disappear. Hopefully he’ll leave them feeling so betrayed and angry that they won’t feel the need to come after him. That will be best, he’s decided. That way Carolyn won’t feel unnecessarily guilty, Arthur won’t have to get unnecessarily upset, and Douglas - well. He’s not sure how Douglas will take his death, and he’s not particularly keen on finding out. Now, with only weeks - if not days - to go, his resolve is as sturdy as it can be. That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

“Martin.”

He jumps, pulled out of his morose inner monologue by Douglas’s voice. When he meets the man’s eyes, he swears he sees something almost akin to concern there, but it’s gone nearly before he has a chance to identify it.

“What?” he croaks, voice scratchy from his perpetually dry throat.

“You just looked a bit lost, I figured you could use a bit of direction back to our lovely portacabin here.”

Martin looks around and realizes that Arthur is watching the conversation meekly from the corner. “Oh. Well.” He smiles a bit, hoping to add a somewhat lighter tone to the place. “I was just thinking.”

“Might I inquire as to what?”

Martin purses his lips - that was a stupid thing to say. Of course Douglas would wonder about what, and he doesn’t really have the energy at this point to try to make something up. “I’d just...rather not talk about it,” he says quietly and looks immediately back at his paperwork. Now, rather than lighten the mood, he’s darkened it. He sees Arthur shift uncomfortably and stare at Douglas as if asking him what to do. He can’t see Douglas but hopes that he’s simply shrugging and looking back at whatever he was doing before.

That’s not the case.

He feels a hand on his shoulder and it takes him a moment to be surprised at the contact.

“Douglas,” he splutters. “What in the world...”

Douglas forcibly swivels Martin’s chair around, looking him in the eye. “I cannot figure out what’s the matter with you. At first I thought you were sick but nothing lasts this long without being detrimental…” Martin very nearly laughs at that. Douglas, more than anyone, expects to be in the know: why, in his mind, wouldn’t he be aware of a terminal disease?

“Now I just don’t know,” he continues, and it’s then that Martin realizes just how unavoidably serious Douglas is. Only a handful of times in his employment at MJN has Martin heard Douglas admit that he’s unsure about something and that fact almost scares him. Because if there’s one thing Douglas is good at, it’s making sure he’s redeemed, usually by making sure whatever made him wrong is completely understood.

“I-it’s nothing,” Martin stutters. He hates Douglas’s scrutiny - it nearly makes him waver. The hard stare leaves his throat dry, makes his eyes sting and his head hurt even more. He wants to just give up and tell everyone here what’s happening. But he can’t: he’s already made up his mind. He can’t hurt them when there’s nothing to be done.

“I don’t believe you,” Douglas says, voice pitched low. But he’s cut short and forced to take a quick step backwards when Carolyn’s door opens.

She pauses briefly when she sees Douglas by Martin’s desk but chooses not to comment, instead morphing her face into one of complete seriousness. “He’s not coming today,” she starts, only to be cut off by Martin.

“What do you mean? I’ve already put in the flight plan, Carolyn.” In all honesty he’s not worried about that so much as having to return home to an empty flat and sit waiting either for a call from his boss or from his doctor.

Carolyn gives him a strange look but immediately shakes it off. She sighs. “Then we’ll have to change it,” she says. “He’s rescheduled for next week.”

Douglas shrugs and gives Martin a look that tells him _exactly_ what he thinks about this man’s lack of punctuality and consideration. He walks swiftly back to his desk and picks up his pen, returning to his previous task. Martin watches him blankly, only now realizing that Douglas has taken on a great deal of the paperwork. Has he really been so completely out-of-it that he hadn’t noticed this before?

He looks down at his own small pile of work. He’s been here for an hour and has only written a few things on the first sheet on the pile. He can barely read the handwriting with how shaky it’s become. He wonders briefly if anyone else has noticed. Carolyn is the only other one who might check his work before he sends it off, though she hasn’t said anything.

He hasn’t exactly been very good about hiding what’s happening, now that he thinks about it. In all honesty, he’s been too exhausted to try up to this point.

“Martin,” Carolyn says. She’s moved closer - is standing directly in front of his desk now. “Perhaps you should go home; you don’t look so good.”

Martin grips the bottom of his desk. He doesn’t want to go home - he wants to spend as much time as he can _here_ with his _friends_. The enormity of the emotion that hits him is almost too much to bear. His chest constricts with feeling and a fit of coughing overtakes him suddenly. It takes him far too long to stop and he hides his hand quickly when he notices the specks of blood. He wipes his mouth as he turns back to Carolyn who is looking uncharacteristically...soft.

“Martin…”

Martin stands before he can be scrutinized further, proud that he’s able to hide most of his wobbling.

“Alright, alright. I’ll go home. I’ll see you for the flight,” he says brusquely, carefully avoiding eye contact as he all but runs out of the room to his car. He needs to go to the hospital after that episode. He doesn’t want to, though - he’s afraid of what they might tell him - of what he's _sure_ they'll tell him - now.

 

* * *

 

Douglas watches the proceedings from his desk, counting the seconds as Martin continues to cough. The entire portacabin is silent after the door slams shut behind him: even Carolyn is shocked into complete immobility.

Arthur makes a small, scared noise when no one starts speaking immediately. He moves forward and grabs his mother’s hand. Instinctively, she curls her own fingers around his.

“What’s wrong with Skip?” he whispers.

Carolyn shakes her head and throws a brief glance at Douglas before carefully extracting her hand from Arthur’s and patting him on the shoulder. “Arthur, dear, please go tell Carl that we won’t be flying out after all.”

Arthur nods slowly, and Douglas can see that he knows he’s being sent away deliberately. When the door clicks closed, Carolyn grabs a chair and puts it in front of Douglas’s desk.

“How do the books look?” Douglas asks, watching as Carolyn closes her eyes and shakes her head.

“Even if I cut a fourth of your pay like you said, it still doesn’t add up. Once we get this client on a regular basis we should be in the clear. However, after today I’m not so sure his problem is money.”

She meets his eyes and he knows exactly what she’s thinking - it’s the same thought that’s been on his mind for the past couple of weeks: Martin looks sick. Not merely stressed and tight for funds, as they’d originally believed.

“What could possibly be wrong with him, if not stress?” Douglas muses, hoping to convince himself as much as Carolyn. “Nothing lasts this long unless it’s deadly and, no matter what, he has a legal obligation to tell you should that be the the case.”

“Only if there’s a chance it makes him unfit to fly.”

That stops Douglas. Carolyn has really considered all the angles at this point; he’s rather miffed that he didn’t do so as well. Of course Martin’s not going to put them in danger. He won’t fly if there’s a risk that he could collapse. That either means that it’s not as serious as they think or…

“If it’s too serious he’ll have to hand in a resignation.”

Douglas closes his eyes. That action alone would convey the reality of the situation. If Martin: the sky’s biggest fan, stopped flying, it would mean he has no other options.

“What’s the count at now?”

“A little under five months,” he replies swiftly. “About two since I had to start taking over the paperwork and one and a half since he stopped playing games in the air.”

Carolyn purses her lips. “I don’t suppose we could just ask the man.”

“Tried that today,” Douglas says absently, thinking back to Martin’s surprised yet glassy-eyed stare. “He denied there being anything wrong.”

“Of course he did, the stupid git,” she says, suddenly angry. She stands swiftly, nearly knocking the chair back in her effort to start her pace around the room. “He can’t just act like a normal human being and try to get help. And we can’t just force it on him or else we’ll end up alienating him. Arthur’s nearly sick with worry now and I’m not far behind.”

Douglas sits back and stares at Martin’s empty desk. “I suppose, in a way, it’s none of our business.”

“That, Richardson, is a dead wrong assumption. He is working for my company and as his boss, it is my business.”

Douglas continues to stare unwaveringly across the small room. He has no idea where to go from here, a feeling he’s been experiencing a lot as of late. Perhaps there truly is nothing wrong with Martin, but then again, perhaps there is. In all likelihood, the man is too stubborn to want to ask for help. “Maybe he can’t ask for help,” Douglas voices the thought nearly as soon as it pops into his mind.

That idea gives Carolyn pause. “What? Why wouldn’t he be able to?”

“I’ve no idea,” he answers quietly. A thousand thoughts run through his head at once but he ignores them, instead turning away from Carolyn and the whole conversation altogether. His hand moves methodically as he continues his paperwork, vaguely registering Carolyn's sigh and silent retreat to her office.


	3. Chapter 3

His hands are shaking; even more than usual. The van is parked in front of the hospital, nearly entirely nondescript in the full parking lot. It crosses his mind, as it has so many other times, that he's not the only one going through this. Ok, yes, he's probably the only one in the whole of England going through _this_ but he's not alone in his frequent trips to this god forsaken place so far from his home.

Martin has always been rather wary of hospitals. His father's last days had been spent in hospital bed with his entire family standing desolately around him. He remembers how awful it was: the feeling of insignificance and inability to do anything: even so simple as to just help him with the pain. He never wanted to feel that again, let alone let someone else go through it. He's made sure, so far, that no one will.

He opens his eyes to the grey sky again. The backdrop is so fitting, all he needs now is a clap of thunder. But like the rain, it refuses to come, and he supposes he's grateful for that. Outside the car, Trisha walks by: one of his regular nurses. He watches her go, thankful that he’s going to be here during her shift. Without warning, a memory hits him, replacing the dreary outside world with a bland hospital corridor.

He was breathing heavily while Trisha was trying to get him to place his head in between his knees.

“Breath, Martin,” she said, voice soft. It seemed like foolish advice, but he couldn’t seem to get any air no matter how hard he tried. He was in so much pain and he was _dying_ ; he’d known that before, but it had never registered to him, not in that way.

She backed off of her original tactic and instead took his head firmly in her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Tell me what hurts.”

“Everything,” he grit out.

“No,” she replied sternly. “Exactly. Do not skip anything; I want a full list.”

So he did, and it calmed him down, just as she thought it would. The ability to compartmentalize, to rank how much each part of him hurt, allowed him to finally get some air in and to slow his breathing.

Just as it’s doing now.

“Head,” he whispers. “The whole thing: maybe an eight.” He takes a deep breath. “Chest. Center is a six, lower half is nine. Stomach - er - mid-abdomen,” he corrects, remembering Trisha’s short lesson on anatomy. “Twelve.” He breathes again. “Twelve,” he repeats, confirming it to himself. Trisha will hear that and do that thing with her eyebrows that displays her trying to hide her concern over him breaking past the ten-point scale. His arms ache, as do his legs, but that ever-present pain is only due to stress, apparently.

Another coughing fit wracks his frame, shooting every number on his pain scale up by at least two. That decides it for him: he needs to go inside. He’s learned over the last few months that attempting to put off bad news only makes it worse. Placing the parking permit on the dash, he steps out. He weaves his way through the cars, surprised when he sees Trisha standing at the front doors with her arms crossed.

“Was wondering when you were gonna finally come in.”

Martin shakes his head as he walks the remaining few meters to meet her. “You’ve been waiting here this whole time?”

“Of course,” she replies. “I saw your monster of a van and then I saw that you were still in it.” She carefully grasps his elbow and leads him inside. He used to be so put off by her tactile nature, but now he can’t think of what he’d do without it. “I’ll take you straight in...no need to sit around in that crowded waiting room.”

“Thank you.”

She smiles at him and checks in before turning him down the all-too-familiar corridor. It takes him but a minute to change into the usual hospital gown and seat himself in the room to begin his wait.

He remembers his first time at his first hospital (Fitton’s) only three months before, after his headache kept coming back worse and staying longer. He’d put it off as long as he could, afraid that they’d tell him he should take it easy for awhile.

Oh how he wishes that was what they’d said.

No; instead the doctor had run some tests, at first afraid that it might have been a brain tumor. Luckily he’d known some specialists in London and two days later, he was back in that same room sitting on the same cold table, being told that he had an extremely rare genetic disease.

“What do I do, then?” he’d asked, panic mounting as the man looked at the nurse, his facial expression briefly communicating just how much he didn’t want to have to say what he was about to.

“Mr. Crieff,” he’d said, voice monotone and emotionless with the weight of his news. “At this point - well - it’s almost too late.”

Martin had only been able to stare, mouth opened and unmoving, shoulders sagging with unvoiced emotion.

“There is a drug in testing for this disease. However, the disease itself is so rare that its hardly had a chance to be used." A pause. "Mr. Crieff…”

Martin hadn’t realized that he'd started shaking his head, staring at his dangling feet, babbling about not being able to do this, not being able to maintain himself on medication that could be fatal, could make him tired, sick, angry, whatever untested medication is known to do. His jaw clicked shut loudly and he raised his head to meet the doctor’s sympathy-filled eyes.

“At this point,” he continued slowly, “the drug has about a ninety two percent chance of being ineffective in slowing the degeneration should you start it. Since the drug is potentially dangerous and could have little to no effect, I cannot recommend that option.”

Martin heard a soft, pathetic noise and only realized it was him when the nurse gently patted his shoulder. “What...what then…” he stuttered, hands flailing around as if for an answer.

“Your disease is similar to what the medical community has dubbed multiple organ dysfunction syndrome. What’s different about your case, is that it starts in the head and ends in respiratory failure. The only thing to be done at this point is to perform surgery. When there’s evidence of internal degeneration, your name will be put on the waitlist for various transplants.”

“What will that do? It it’s a problem in my DNA - in my _brain_  - that won’t stop it, will it?”

“It won’t. However, if the surgeries are performed in time, you’ll be back at the start. As far as we can tell, this disease causes slight inflammation in the brain which is the reason for the headaches, not because that is undergoing degeneration as well, which means you're safe in that regard. The headaches will persist, but the next time around, you can get the medication in time and slow the other symptoms. Until that time, we’re going to have to send you to a more specialized hospital, about two hours away from here.”

He ignores the practicalities, instead focusing on the description of the disease. “So it’s never gone. I’ll always be dying; always failing…”

It had been a stupid statement: _everyone_  is, in the technical sense, dying. In all honesty, it was the failing that killed him (in the metaphorical sense). Failed at school, failed at his pilot tests, failed at properly supporting himself, and now: failing at staying alive.

The door opens and Dr. Hector Shaw walks in with a concerned yet encouraging smile. “Martin,” he starts, “I wasn’t expecting you for another four days.”

Despite how familiar he is with the doctor, he still wrings his hands with the news he has to share.

“I coughed up blood.”

The words are out before he can even think and they give even the doctor pause. “Ah” is all he responds with before flipping through his chart. He hums as he reads, eyebrows drawing together. Martin sits in the silence, guessing what he’s going to say even before he opens his mouth. “We can’t really say this was unexpected.”

Martin nods: they couldn’t. He learned to stop expecting a set timeline weeks ago. That doesn’t mean it’s any less surprising now that it’s happened.

“I have a flight next week,” he suddenly blurts.

Shaw purses his thin lips. “I’ll have to run some tests, first.”

“Please,” Martin pleads, suddenly adamant and lively. “Please. Just one more trip.”

Shaw pats his shoulder lightly. “We’ll see, Martin. Though I’m confident that you will, actually, be able to fly this last time.” He gives a reassuring smile. “I’ll make sure you get the painkillers you need, should you be able to go,” he says, winking at the same time. Immediately Martin feels better.

It’s no secret that Martin goes through the painkillers faster than he should be, so quickly that they’ve stopped even working as effectively as they should. Yet, to him, they’ve become a bit of a crutch - any pain spared is a that much more of his heavy burden lifted from him. So when the pharmacist refuses to refill his prescription, occasionally his doctor will in their stead. He’s so grateful; at this point, he’s gone without for nearly two weeks. These are the occasions when everything seems a little less dark; the times when he’s not burdened by the creeping, all-consuming pain constantly commandeering his consciousness.

“Now. You know the drill by now: some scans, a biopsy or two, and then we wait. Is your afternoon free?”

“Isn’t it always?”

Shaw smiles and turns toward the door. “I’ll go and get you scheduled for your tests. Nurse White will be in here soon for your preliminary tests.”

The door closes and again he’s left to wait. He leans back and stares unseeingly at the ceiling, hands hovering protectively over his abdomen. He hopes Trisha gets here soon; she usually gives him pain relievers on Shaw’s orders, especially if he’s going to be in for a while.

As he stares, the ceiling above him contorts into the black, star filled sky above the airfield.

It was the night right after The News had been delivered and he couldn’t move. He was thirty five years old and he was dying and he didn’t understand. He certainly didn’t feel as if he was dying. Sure, there were the headaches but good lord, everyone got those. Not everyone, however, got failing organs along with them. That was just him with his hideous luck. One would think after so many years with such an atrocious lot in life, he’d be due for something to go right in his life.

He stared at the stars, wondering how he could be _so_  insignificant yet feel so terrible now that he was going to disappear.

He felt alone. He was alone. He hadn’t told anyone yet. He couldn’t even begin to think about who he might tell or how he might break the news. He has to tell his mum, at least; it’s a genetic disease, after all. She’ll have to make sure to pass on the information, get everyone tested. He couldn’t bring himself to think about telling anyone else.

How was he supposed to tell others when he couldn’t even accept it himself?

Trisha's head appears above him and the sky disperses into black tendrils, slowly revealing the bright white ceiling. “You’re stuck in your head again,” she says, backing up so he can sit up.

Her hands travel with unerring precision over his body, finding his lymph nodes, pressing into his abdomen, pulling on his arm to draw blood. She mumbles under her breath as she works, voice eventually gaining volume to say, “What were you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” he replies quickly. It’s the only answer he can think of without sounding severely depressed. He hates bringing his dark moods out against Trisha. She doesn’t deserve to hear about his inability to focus on anything except for his shredded, jagged emotions constantly threatening to tear through his chest.

“Have you still not told anyone?” she eventually asks. The tone of her voice tells him that she was gearing up to say it, but her eyes betray nothing as she sticks a needle into his arm, finally allowing access to the medication.

He shrugs, not meeting her eyes. He knows how she feels about his non-discretion.

“Martin,” she starts, the usual exasperation creeping into her voice.

“I can’t,” he gasps, suddenly gone: drowning in his emotion. And doesn’t he hate this; this sudden submersion into a single emotion; the few moments when he can’t control _anything_ about himself and the floodgates open. The times when a few tears spill and he can’t seem to stop his crying no matter how much he tries.

“Mum, Simon, Caitlin: they can’t hope to help me; there’s nothing to be done, absolutely nothing. MJN will have to go on without me and I don’t know if they can. I can't have them resenting me, giving up anything for me, for _me_. What good will it do to tell anyone when it’ll only make them sad? When there’s nothing but tragedy to come out of all this?”

He stops speaking suddenly and notices he’s moved. Trisha is gripping his arm with one hand, the other cradling his head where he has it leaning against her shoulder. He’s shaking and his breath is stuttering along in the form of poorly-controlled sobs. He hasn’t cried in so long. He hasn’t been held by anyone in even longer. In the small part of his brain that’s still functioning rationally, he realizes that’s not good, that it’s probably been hurting him just as much as the disease itself.

He wants to raise his arms and trap her comforting form against him and never let go - not until he’s dead. It’s so pathetic: he should be stronger, more determined in his resolve to do this alone no matter how much it hurts him.

“I’m just your nurse,” she whispers, “but please, for a moment, listen to me as if I am one of your closest friends. You. Can’t. Keep. Doing. This.” Her hand against his arm grips tighter with each word and her other hand gently pulls his head away to meet her eyes. “Friends and family are meant to share in and ease pain. You need to tell them.”

He shakes his head. He can’t be that; that drain on energy, that blot in their memories, that pathetic failure of a friend and brother and son. He just can’t.

She backs off and stares at the door so as not to look at him. She’s disappointed - she won’t say so, but he can feel it. When she finally does look back at him, her shoulders sag and she sighs.

“Don’t look like that; I’m just worried about you, Martin. We all are.”

He squeezes his hands together in thought. “Worried?” he murmurs.

“Yes, you fool. Worried. Nearly everyone who’s worked with you at this hospital up to this point cares about you, Martin. We all just want to make sure you’re as happy as you can be through all of this, and that’s not happening.”

Martin is speechless; what is he supposed to say to that? “Thank you,” is what he settles on, staring at his clenched hands until she leaves with his blood samples. He told himself he wouldn’t be a burden to anyone and now the bloody nurse is telling him he actually means enough to others - that his pain bothers them - and that _hurts_. He very briefly considers leaving but can’t bear the thought of not knowing whether or not he’s flight worthy, whether or not he’ll be putting his friends in danger if he tries to pilot an aeroplane.

He leans back once more, staring at the ceiling while he prepares himself for the usual poking and prodding and questions. And, possibly, for the worst news he could get this far.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hello and welcome back to Support. I intended to post this on my birthday a couple days ago since I missed last Friday, but then I got caught up in all my homework :(. So I'm sorry about that.**
> 
> **This chapter is a little shorter but I might just post the next one soon (aka this weekend) if I can get in the time to edit it. Anyway, before I go on, I just want to put out another thank you for all the love this crazy idea is getting. I hope you all enjoy what's to come.**

It’s hours later when he finally arrives home. The sky is darkening, the sun setting in a blaze of orange, yellow, and red. His head, heavy with ever-continuous burdens punctuated only by slight relief at the final verdict falls heavily against the steering wheel and he breathes a sigh. He’s clear: one more flight and then he’s done, either forced to stay at home or stay in hospital.

Should he pack his things? It’s the right thing to do, probably. It’d be rude to make someone do it after he’s gone, even with his small amount of items. The thought of all the work, though, exhausts him, not to mention makes him sick. He’d be packing up his life, and the fact that he has so little is truly a testament to that. He was going to be someone big - a captain that children pointed in awe at in airports and students strove to be like.

A whole thirty five years, and what has he got to show for it?

He flinches violently at a knock on the window. When he looks up to see Douglas on the other side, he very nearly considers putting the car into drive and speeding away from his spot against the curb. After a ten second consideration in which he realizes that that option is not, actually, a good idea, he pulls his keys from the ignition and signals Douglas to step back. He doesn’t look at him as he steps out, only makes sure he’s following as he unlocks the front door and leads them to the kitchen to start some much-needed tea.

“It’s nine twenty,” Douglas remarks as he leans against the counter, staring at Martin.

“Excellent observation,” Martin replies tersely, not really in the mood to undergo an interrogation.

Douglas smirks at the sass but almost immediately after his face schools itself back into a look of stern concern. “You left the airfield at about eleven thirty.”

Martin resists the urge to slam the kettle down on the tile counter once it’s done boiling. He doesn’t need this right now; he’s only just recently been home, he doesn’t have the time to rebuild the walls that have been so carelessly torn down after today’s visit to the hospital. His emotions are running freely and he’s afraid of what he might say if Douglas pushes him too far. “And what time did you leave at, then, Douglas?”

“I left at two. And you know, I’ve had a lovely afternoon.”

Martin shrugs at the tangent, looking quickly away to pour the tea into the two least-chipped mugs in the kitchen.

“Oh yes,” Douglas continues without prompting. “Excellent. I relished in the opportunity to walk about in that park of yours next door for a couple of hours before it started to rain, at which point I read quite a large chunk of my novel in my car.” He stares pointedly at Martin, letting the unvoiced accusation reverberate through the air.

Martin’s shoulders sag and he almost drops the pot of hot water. It takes him a few long moments to set it down properly at which point he turns around and wipes his hands down his face, looking at Douglas warily through his fingers. The man looks devastated, as if Martin’s reaction is the complete opposite of what he wanted. “What do you want, Douglas?”

“Where were you?”

“I was at my mum’s,” he lies quickly, averting his eyes back to the unfinished tea.

“Interesting. Your mother said she hasn’t seen you in months; asked me to get you to come up some time.”

Martin’s hands latch onto the counter tightly, knuckles turning white. “You must’ve called too early, then.”

“Martin…”

“No.” Martin says, hands and voice shaking. “I’m not doing this, Douglas. I don’t need this right now. If you want to stay here and chat like friends, fine, but if you’re going to question me like some rebellious teenager, I’m going to ask that you leave.”

“Fine,” he says. Martin’s hands release as he waits for Douglas to leave but instead, the man gently pushes Martin out of the way and sets about finishing the tea. He shoves one of the mugs into Martin’s hand and takes the other, grimacing at the poor quality after he tastes it. “Would you prefer we sit in the front room or in your room?”

Martin just stares at him, not sure what to say. “I’m...I’m still in uniform.”

“Sir should probably fix that; it’s my understanding that those outfits become very stiff after awhile.”

Martin takes the chance swiftly, setting the mug roughly down on the counter and rushing up to his room, slamming the door behind him. He slides down, hands coming up to grip and pull at his hair as he hits the floor.

This was not the plan; Douglas was not supposed to be so...so...friendly. He was supposed to banter, sure, but never get any closer than colleague. Now he’s here drinking Martin’s tea and expecting him to come downstairs and be normal and he just can’t do that - he’s not sure he’s ever been able to do that.

Hands gripping the door behind him, he stands shakily. He simply stares ahead while he breathes. Douglas might come up if he takes too long - he has to move. His eyes roam over his jacket-covered arms. He’ll have to wear a long-sleeved shirt to hide the injection marks. Of course it’s a warm summer night, too; as if he hasn’t already behaved suspiciously enough in front of Douglas.

He watches himself in the mirror as he changes, counting his ribs as he does every morning and night. Extremely close to underweight is what Shaw told him when he first arrived and, within the past few months, it hasn’t changed. Perhaps it’s gotten worse, though Shaw hasn’t said much about it. Frankly, he can’t really bring himself to care what his weight is when there’s so much else to worry about now.

Douglas is sitting on the couch reading the newspaper when he returns. Martin grabs his mug from the kitchen and moves as normally and not-got-something-to-hide-ly as he can, seating himself in the armchair next to the couch and staring at the muted telly.

“I’ll admit,” Douglas starts, carefully folding the newspaper and setting it aside. “I haven’t exactly ‘hung out’ with anyone in quite some time.”

“Not even your lucky stewardesses?” Martin jokes, feeling giddy at the fact that he can even do so at this point.

Douglas laughs. “Haven’t been many of those lately, to be honest. Though I only tell you that in the strictest of confidence,” he chides, looking at Martin with mock-solemnity.

Martin raises his hands, palms facing forward. “I wouldn’t tell a soul,” he says, smiling at Douglas as he smirks back at him. This feels...alright. He hasn’t simply sat and chatted with anyone in such a long time. It feels good: calming.

They both stare at the television screen as the news scrolls past. It’s quiet, it’s peaceful; it’s something Martin didn’t realize he needed.

“The telly remote to whomever wins a round of ‘replace a word in a movie title with a city that we’ve visited’,” Douglas says quietly.

Martin smiles, leaning back in his seat and staring at the stained ceiling. “Now that’s a new one,” he mutters.

“Oh I can assure you that I have plenty of games stored up. Now. The Grapes of Edinburgh,” he states, voice slightly wavering with anticipation.

Martin closes his eyes, empty mug hanging from his fingertips. “The Rotterdam Hill Mob,” he breathes, chest expanding in a content sigh. If he concentrates hard enough, he can almost see the sky outside of the window as he flies.

~*~

Martin wakes on the couch, with a blanket tangled around him and the remote bearing a post-it note sitting beside his head. He rubs his eyes and retrieves the note, chuckling at the words written there.

_Good game, Captain. Perhaps you’ve been practicing over these last few months. You can trust that next time, I will not let you win so easily._

He grimaces then.

Next time.

Next.

Time.

The last time.

The final flight of Captain Martin Crieff.

The realization hits Martin like a punch in the chest and all the air flows out of him at once. He gasps as the pain his body feels registers, suddenly, in waves - brought to the fore by his unexpected breach into reality. His traitorous mind whispers something that sounds a lot like “you should tell him” and that in itself is unacceptable. He won’t let one night of friendly companionship weaken his resolve.

The blanket falls to a heap on the ground as he struggles to stand, noting the late time of morning. He contemplates the day before: Trisha’s words, Shaw’s diagnosis, Douglas’s visit. He thinks, perhaps, it is time that he does tell someone, but only because it’s necessary to warn others in his family. He groans, rubbing his eyes as he thinks about what he’s going to say.

His mother is not going to be happy.


	5. Chapter 5

The amount of time it takes him to get to Wokingham is, in Martin’s opinion, far too short. He pulls up to his mother’s house. And then he drives around the block a few times. Martin has absolutely no idea how his mum is going to take this news. He hopes that she’ll listen to him, not insist on moving in with him, and keep it to herself, but there’s never any telling with that woman.

When he finally stops the van for the final time in front of the modest home, he checks himself out in the mirror. To his eyes, he doesn’t look any different than he did yesterday, or a week ago, or even a month ago. To his mother’s eyes - ones that haven’t seen him in such a long time - he’s sure he looks awful.

“At least you won’t have to beat around the bush,” he mumbled, straightening his shirt as he steps down from the van.

He hears his knocks echo throughout the household as he waits. Time seems to move in slow motion while he listens, trying to determine whether or not Wendy is home. He’s just turning away from the door when he finally hears the sounds of footsteps. The door opens.

He really should have called first.

“Martin!” Caitlin says, excitement at seeing her brother after so long trumping her usual competitiveness when around him. Her eyebrows scrunch together and she takes a step forward. “Martin,” she says again, far more subdued the second time. “Good lord, what’s wrong.”

Martin stares open-mouthed. He wasn’t expecting this; he wasn’t supposed to see her. This is wrong; he shouldn’t be here.

“I’ll...” his voice cracks, he tries again. “I’ll just come back later.”

“Nonsense,” Caitlin’s voice echoes through his head. That was always her problem: her volume. She grabs his arm, spinning him around. The harsh movement makes him wince and she drops her hand as if she’s been burned when she sees. “Mum’s just upstairs,” she says slowly. “You should come inside. She’ll be happy to see you.”

Martin relents at the words. He really should talk to his mother and - it would seem - his sister as well. “Look.” He leans close, stopping Caitlin before they go inside. “Mum’s alright, isn’t she? Perfectly healthy, good mood, all that?”

Caitlin chuckles, albeit nervously. “She’s perfectly fine, Martin. Now get inside, already. I was just in the middle of making lunch. You want a sandwich?”

He shrugs, not really caring either way. In turn, Caitlin rolls her eyes, grumbling about stubborn and uncaring brothers. The normalcy of it all makes him smile.

“Caitlin!” His mother’s voice sounds throughout the house as they walk by the staircase. “Who was at the door?”

“It was Martin!” Caitlin practically shouts back, not at all helping Martin’s headache.

“Martin!” Her mom gasps. “Did you let him go? What did he want? Is he coming back?”

His chest squeezes as he listens to the excitement in her voice. Caitlin side-eyes him and he can’t help but giggle as he hears his mum stand quickly, nearly toppling the chair she was sitting on.

“I’m still here, Mum!” he calls, hoping she doesn’t rush herself too much and end up getting hurt.

“Martin,” she croons. She rushes to the stairs, gripping the rail as she stops to get a good look at him. Just like Caitlin, her eyes narrow once she gets a good look at him. “Martin,” she says sternly. She takes long steps down the stairs, pulling him into a fierce hug when she gets to the bottom.

She pulls back, staring at him. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I would’ve had some chicken soup made up - you look positively ill, dear.”

Martin scratches his head, not able to meet her eyes.

“Martin, dear, tell me: how long have you been sick? You should’ve called me when it started.”

That statement alone sucks all the air from his lungs. She’s going to hate him for keeping this hidden for so long. “I...er…”

“Lunch!” Caitlin yells from a single room away, saving him from having to answer. Wendy grabs her son’s hand, smiling at him as she pulls him into the dining room.

“Now, Martin, I have some chicken soup in a can if you’d like that instead,” Wendy says for what must be the fourth time at the end of their meal.

“Really, Mum, I’m almost done with my sandwich. I’m fine.”

“Only if you’re sure, dear. I could make you something else if you like; I hate to see you looking so pale.”

Martin only continues to chew his sandwich.

“Maybe he’s not sick, Mum,” Caitlin cuts in. “Maybe he’s just stressed out about something.”

Wendy places her finger against her chin and considers. “Maybe. Martin, dear, are you alright with money? Are you overworked? I’m sure Caitlin will help you around the house if that’s what you need.”

“Mum, you wouldn’t be able to lend me any money even if that was the problem. I’m not overly-stressed, ok?”

Wendy glances at Caitlin in a manner that he’s all-too-familiar with after having lived with the two women for years. They’re skeptical but think him too stubborn to want to tell the truth. He’d wanted to wait until they were done eating, at least, but if she keeps persisting, he’s going to end up bursting out and just telling them; and that is _definitely_ not how he wants to reveal the news to them.

Caitlin breaks the silence by offering to take the dishes into the kitchen and do the washing up. Martin is surprised when Wendy doesn’t put up a fight, instead thanking her and turning back to her glass of water.

“Let’s go sit in the living room,” she says suddenly, looking at Martin with a smile. “Much more comfortable in there.”

Immediately after he’s seated himself in the armchair across from Wendy’s he feels sick with nerves. She’s looking at him expectantly and he’s sure that she knows he has something serious to say but he’s also sure that she will not be prepared for it.

“Look, Mum, I have something to tell you - something I should’ve told you months ago. Please don’t be angry.”

“Martin,” she starts, looking at him with nothing but concern. He has to close his eyes against it. He hears the water in the kitchen slow and he knows that Caitlin is listening as well.

“You have to promise to let me finish, ok? Just listen to everything I have to say.”

She sits up in her seat and leans forward. “Martin, darling, you’re scaring me.”

He breathes out, hiding his face behind his hands. “Five months ago I woke up with a headache - nothing major, I was used to getting them. This one was only different because it lasted longer. It stayed for awhile but would eventually go away."

He takes another breath, still refusing to look at his mum. "After about two months, it stopped going away altogether. I went to the doctor and they did some tests. They told me I have a really rare genetic disease and, well, I'd waited too long to come in." He says the last two sentences in a rush. "I’ve had to start going to a specialist hospital in London. I had to go back in yesterday and they told me that I only have a few weeks left until- I'll- until I die."

He stares at his knees as he hears a plate shatter against the ground in the kitchen. The sound is continuous; it reverberates throughout the room, only punctuating the silence. He counts his breaths, finally looking up after twenty. Wendy is shaking, staring at him open-mouthed and unmoving. He watches as her eyes light up with tears as her hand against her knee slowly curls into a fist.

From the kitchen, he hears a choked sound and realizes that Caitlin is trying to stop herself from crying like she always does. He hears her big, gulping breaths and then he hears her throw her rag down. She rushes out, stepping directly in front of him and blocking his view of Wendy. She bends down when he doesn't look up at her.

"There has to be something," she says, voice raw with barely controlled emotion. Her eyes widen when Martin does nothing but shake his head, staring at her with a finality that he rarely has. She swings her head rapidly back and forth while she steps back, spinning around to look at Wendy. "Come on! There has got to be a way to stop this, to slow it, something!" Her voice is becoming frantic but Wendy isn't even looking at her; her eyes stare unwaveringly at Martin.

"What will happen?" Her voice is soft, nearly silent, but it stops Caitlin mid-rant.

"Mum," he warns.

"Answer me."

He flinches at the harsh tone and sighs when he sees that she won't relent. "Organ failure," he explains. "It's already started. They'll slowly just...stop. To the point where I won't be able to really even move. What's supposed to kill me, though, is the - er- the lung failure."

"So you're just going to suffocate?" Caitlin very nearly screeches.

Martin doesn't have the heart to confirm. He can't take his eyes away from his mother. Her eyes are blazing with - well - he can't tell. But then, without warning, they soften, and she looks so undeniably aged and torn apart that Martin regrets not just writing a letter and leaving her out of all of this.

"Five months?" she whispers. "What have you been doing for this long without telling us?"

He shrugs: he has no idea. It's gone by so fast. That terrifies him. Five months and he's lost it all in a haze punctuated only by the times he left his home for a flight. That time in his memory is nothing but a dark cloud and isn't that a wonderful thought; his last months were lived in nothing but depression and pain.

"Who else knows?"

The question surprises him. Who would he have told first, if not his family? He answers, "No one," and only then does Wendy start crying.

“Mum,” he says, surprised into brief immobility. “Mum, it’s really alright.”

“Don’t say that,” she says. “You mean to tell me you’ve been alone with this for five months?”

He doesn’t answer. Apparently his expression is as much confirmation as she needs.

“You foolish child,” she whispers as she stands and pulls him up as well into a bone-crushing hug. The sudden contact leaves him breathless and it takes a few tries before he can finally get in enough air. When he does, he curls himself down, cocooning his mother within his embrace and burying his face in her neck as she brushes her fingers through his hair.

He squeezes his eyes shut when he hears Caitlin muffle a sob and his mother sniffle. He should have known this was going to happen. He hates being the subject of such unbridled emotion; he hates the idea of putting them both through this. And now, with Caitlin here, he’s sure Simon’s going to find out one way or another.

Wendy’s arms squeeze impossibly tighter around him when she feels him tense up and for a moment, he’s so thankful he could cry. If there’s one thing his mother was always good at, it was getting him out of his mind and back into the present. He feels guilty for telling her but also - at this moment - selfishly relieved. He hates that feeling more than anything, but this time around, he’s going to revel in it: he deserves to feel a different, better emotion. For a few minutes at least.

~*~

“You _what_?” Caitlin says from her perch on the couch. Martin sinks down in his chair, trying to shield himself against her scrutiny.

“I-”

She cuts him off before he can try to explain. “And I bet you weren’t planning on telling me either?”

He looks away and hears her huff angrily.

“Now, Caitlin,” Wendy says, “Let Martin explain.”

He looks back as Caitlin crosses her arms, looking for all the world like a toddler. “I,” he starts. “I just didn’t want to...bother you...”

Caitlin immediately perks up, looking as if she’s ready to yell at him but Wendy cuts her off with a hand in the air and a stern look, nodding at Martin to continue.

He gulps and stares across the room at a family portrait of all of them from about twenty years before. Martin being the youngest still had the gawky look of his teenage years - all knees and elbows, extremely thin with bright ginger hair and a frankly ridiculous amount of pimples. He takes after his mother height-wise, and is the only one. Caitlin and Simon are both standing proudly next to their father, both nearly a head taller than Martin himself. His father has on his usual amused-yet-stern face that he dons for pictures while Wendy looks positively aglow.

He looks back at his mother, whose face is now drawn and distinctly grey. “Look what I’ve done to you,” he says suddenly, the words falling out of his mouth without abandon. Strangely enough, he doesn’t try to stop them. He needs to get them out.

“Look at how upset the both of you are. There is only a very, _very_ miniscule chance of my survival. Why should I pull you all into a five month long down-spiral in which there’s absolutely no light at the end? What good does that do you? Why shouldn’t I just handle it myself and then, after I’m gone, you’ll mourn for a few days instead of following in the footsteps of my own personal depression for _months_? That’s not fair to you. You have lives outside of me; Simon has two kids and his job; Caitlin has her boyfriend and her job; you, Mum, have two other kids and yourself to look after. Why do I matter? I didn’t want what happened during Dad’s death to happen again...” he trails off and stares at his feet.

Insignificant. He hates that word. He remembers watching an episode of Doctor Who with Arthur where The Doctor said that no human, in his eyes, was insignificant. He can’t imagine that The Doctor would ever say that again after meeting him. What does he have to offer now, besides tragedy? What did he ever have to offer?

He doesn’t realize he’d let a tear slip past until Wendy is in front of him, wiping it from his cheek. “You can’t do this alone, Martin. You’re my son, and I’m supposed to care for you, no matter what might happen at the end.”

“But that’s not fair,” he says. “You shouldn’t have to...”

“I don’t _have_ to, darling. I want to. I find that’s a very important distinction to make.”

He looks up at her then and he can see immediately that he hurt her more by hiding it than by revealing it in the first place. He closes his eyes against the onslaught of emotion and shakes when Wendy presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“We’re going to tell Simon,” Wendy says. “Because he is family and he will want to care for you just as I do and just as Caitlin wants to. We can wait the week and a half, though, until he gets back from his vacation. How does that sound?”

“Fine,” Martin breathes, and he wonders, then, how he ever expected her to keep it a secret in the first place. He’s just glad this part, at least, is out of his hands now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Check it out! I was actually able to get that second update up :D. Hope you guys like this - we're about halfway through, maybe a little later at this point.**


	6. Chapter 6

He needs something to do. He can’t just lie around anymore - not when he still has the capacity to get up and move around and pick things up and live his life.

Getting up the motivation to actually move though, that is hard. Sure he can think all he wants about wanting to put his body to good use while it’s still functional but actually doing that work is exhausting. Everything is exhausting, at least lately. And really, what’s the point? What will he do?

His head turns, falling sideways to stare out into his room. A single bookshelf resides on the opposite side, harbouring miniature aeroplanes, manuals, and even a few of his favorite novels that he’d chosen to buy instead of simply renting from the library. Next to him sits a bedside table, and next to that sits a desk. It’s mostly empty now. It used to have flight magazines, atlases, and even the old laptop his mother gave him sitting on top of it. He’d started throwing everything within it away ages ago - early on, back when anger could consume him in a red hot rage, leaving him unconscious to the world for minutes, maybe even hours.

He’d come back to himself a good forty minutes later, lying on his bed panting. His things from within the desk were shredded, deposited into a single, overflowing trash bag next to his door. No way to get them back.

The idea of his life being so irrevocably and easily wiped clean like that scares him, and for a moment he’s thrown into a panic. Everything he owns and loves in this room can fit into a few simple boxes, everything he’s ever done and ever been interested in can be tossed aside so easily. And who is he, if not the interests he has?

Suddenly, the idea of someone else cleaning up after him once he’s gone disgusts him on such a level that he nearly retches. They don’t know him - they don’t know what model aeorplane goes with what manual, what certificate on his wall comes first, which book is his favorite and deserves a special place. They would just toss everything aside to clean, to make sure that there’s room for the next lonely soul to place itself in the cheapest form of housing available.

Whether it be his brother, his mum, Douglas, even, none of them would _know_. He’ll be gone and they’ll be moving on but none of them will ever know that his favorite plane is the B-52 Stratofortress, that his favorite movie is Toy Story because he can do an excellent impersonation of Woody that never fails to make his youngest neice grin, that...that he existed as someone outside of flying and working and games in the cockpit. And that’s his fault. More than anyone else, it’s his fault.

He doesn’t regret, for even one second, pursuing flying like he did. What he regrets is letting it consume him to the point where he’s alienated himself. Letting his pride from striving to become Captain or his determination to just pass the bloody test make him into some unapproachable, crazy person.

He picks up a photo album that Arthur made years ago and flips through it. He wants to be someone that others strive to get to know because he’s interesting and nice and loved. And now he can’t be. And now, he’s realized, he’s wasted his life putting off meaningful conversations and relationships because he always thought he’d have more time.

He finds a box, still perfectly taped and ready to go - an indicator of hope: a quick escape from the musty old attic representative of the low point in his life. He throws the album in, stacking books in after it.

His vision blurs as he works and he realizes that he’s crying again. His tears are hot and they burn as they slide down his face, matching in temperature and fervor to the feeling in his head. He throws the book in his hand against the wall. He’s _angry_ and that shouldn’t be; he’s _done_ this before. He’s denied being sick, he’s gotten angry, he’s begged and pleaded, he’s gotten used to the fact that he’ll be perpetually stuck between depression and acceptance. Every tier of the ridiculous Kubler-Ross model, he’s done that.

But it’s not that simple. It’s not some easy, linear progression. Grief jumps around, curves backwards, completely misses one aspect and doubles up on another. Right now, he’s jumped unexpectedly back to anger: a feeling that grips him without mercy and threatens to suffocate him. He _hates_ this feeling of powerlessness. He _hates_ how completely submissive he’s become to his emotions.

He hates that even though he’s told others now, he’s never felt so alone.

He stands and retrieves the book he threw. It was a gift from Douglas, a way for him to “brush up on the classics for their in-flight games”. He hates himself, suddenly. Not for ungratefully tossing a gift aside (though that’s the start of it, really - the tip of the iceberg) but for never being a friend. He could never afford very many gifts, he never got the chance to invite others over for a home cooked meal, he never put himself out there. And now he’s doing exactly what he’s always done, what he knows best: hiding.

He’s so confused.

Friends. Friendship. He has that...doesn’t he? Despite his own failure at being particularly friendly and outgoing, his crew at MJN cares about him more than they would a simple colleague...right?

He sets the book in the box and stares at it. He grips his hair and pulls at it.

He’s so _confused_.

Waves of anger, hope, sadness, numbness, happiness, depression overtake him; threaten to drown him. His mind is split between wanting to find someone that he knows and spill everything to them and wanting to curl up and disappear, never to be heard from or seen again; never to be a bother to anyone again.

His mind roils, finally settling on the all-numbing depression that it’s usually at. He falls backwards, hitting the floor with a dull thud and hardly noticing the pain. His arms carefully encircle his abdomen, squeezing until he imagines that pain is overcoming the one inside. It’s not, but he’s past the point of caring whether or not he’s adhering to reality.

He’ll stick with his original plan, he decides. He’s no longer sure whether that choice is the noble or cowardly thing to do but he doesn’t want to have to see the potential pain in everyone’s eyes should he reveal himself. He won’t be able to take it. He already wants to just stop existing so that he doesn’t ever have to imagine Arthur’s reaction, should he hear about Martin’s death. He can’t imagine what it’d be like to see his face after hearing that Martin is, in fact, dying. The steward is already desolate enough as it is.

He’s already been putting them through so much.

At least it won’t last much longer.

No.

Not long at all, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bit of a shorter chapter, here, but we're getting very close to the climax! For now, I hope you've joined this edition of introspective angst~**


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **As you're probably noticed, it's been awhile since I've updated. As others of you may have realized, it's also November. I _should_ be working on Nano, but I just couldn't go a full month without giving you guys this chapter. **
> 
> **Also! I just added a new warning for blood...want to guess where it shows up? With that in mind, I hope you all enjoy!**

He can’t fly.

He. Cannot. Fly.

He should call Carolyn and let her know, but at the moment, he doesn’t seem to be able to move.

Over the past week he’s noticed his increased lethargy, his inability to do even the simplest of things. For the past three days, he’s woken up on the floor, having passed out while he packed his things. Thankfully that job is all done, he simply needs to get a student to move it down. Not a moment too soon, either, apparently.

Slowly Martin lifts his arm, watching its slow ascent with barely repressed relief. If he can move a bit now, it means he’ll be able to stand in a few minutes.

Firstly, he needs to call into work - talk to Carolyn. God, what will he say? He can’t just resign over the phone - that’s so unprofessional, especially not with a flight tomorrow. He’ll just have to call in sick and hope Herc can fill in until he can resign later. If there is a later.

For some reason, that thought doesn’t throw him into a panic. He wonders if he’s finally reached acceptance, or if he’s at the point where he just doesn’t care anymore. Probably the latter, to be honest.

It takes about twenty minutes before he can stand and pick up his phone. He has a text from his mother - terse as usual with her inability to type quickly - and a missed call from his boss. He dials her number first, sitting on his bed to preserve his energy.

“Martin,” Carolyn says without greeting. “Where in the world have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

“I only got one call.”

“Then you need a new phone.” She quiets and when she speaks next, her voice is noticeably calmer. “The flight’s been changed.”

Martin closes his eyes. “To?”

“Today.”

Martin is silent. He almost considers it, but decides it would be a very bad idea to go on with flying when he could collapse at any time.

“Martin, look,” Carolyn starts, clearing her throat in the awkward silence. “I’ve been looking over the books. With this flight, we’ll receive a new regular customer and that means I’ll be able to pay you. You’d get your first check after this first flight. I feel you should know that. I should have told you sooner.”

And he thought he didn’t care anymore; turns out, he isn’t as devoid of emotion as he thought. He covers his shaky breathing with a cough, which turns all too real all too quickly. “I’m sorry, Carolyn,” he gasps between coughs. “I can’t fly. I’m too sick.”

On the other end, Carolyn is quiet as she listens to his coughing. “I understand,” she says eventually. “Hercules should be able to fill in. Feel better soon, Martin.”

“Wait!” he stops her just before she hangs up. “I-” his coughing fit halted his tears, but his voice is still full of all the unreleased emotion. “Thank you. I- I had no idea you were going to do...this.”

“Of course, you berk. I’ve never stopped trying to find a way to pay you.”

She hangs up and immediately Martin doubles over. Of course she would say something like that. _Of course_ she would reveal that he’s truly considered and cherished _right now_. No tears are forthcoming but that doesn’t stop his body from heaving with huge, gasping breaths.

A knock on his door stops him mid-breath, and a worried voice at the other end makes him grip his chest hard enough to bruise - trying desperately to cover up this new emotional blow with physical pain.

“One second,” he calls, trying valiantly to reign in his sudden panic. Slowly his breathing calms, quiets to something that Martin thinks is normal, but suspects might still worry those around him.

The door opens to admit Kyle. He smiles meekly at Martin, glancing around the room as he lets himself in. “You alright up here, Cap? Haven’t heard from you in a few days.”

“Fine,” Martin chokes out, standing with only minimal faltering. “What do you need, Kyle?”

He looks around. “Nothing much, really. We ordered too much pizza - I was coming up to see if you wanted any.”

Martin considers, hand coming to his stomach cautiously. It contracts harshly, nearly making him double over in pain. That’s a no on food, then. “Er. No. But thank you.”

Kyle only smiles. He taps a box with his foot and grins at Martin. “I see you’re all packed. Finally moving on to bigger and better things?”

Martin almost laughs in response, but manages to reign himself in. “Um...yes. I suppose.” He raises his arms, flopping them back down to his sides. The students this year are so chatty and nice, yet Martin somehow manages to feel awkward around them.

“You want some help moving them? It’s just me and Zach right now, but that guy needs a study break anyway.”

Martin’s eyes close with a relieved sigh. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

“‘Course! Be right back!”

He runs off and Martin falls back to the bed on shaky legs. He has no idea how he’s going to help them carry these things out of here when he can hardly keep himself standing for more than five minutes at a time.

His eyes move across the tops of the boxes, reading the labels on each. “Books”, “Files”, “To MJN”, “To family”, nothing his own anymore - everything to someone else. All his worldly possessions are here in one place, one single cramped little attic. How pathetic.

He hardly even needs to go to the trouble of making a will at this point. He’s practically cleared out the entirety of his emergency savings after having to pay for rent, and anything he has in the van will probably go to his mother.

His mother. Grimacing, he plays with that single word - a name, more than anything else - in his mind. He rolls the word around, weighing the meaning against the gravity of the situation. While he’s already told her the news, having to tell her his current state scares him more than anything. As soon as she finds out how he’s feeling, she’ll rush down, force him into hospital, make everything concrete and _real_. Her presence frightens him; it’s not her fault, he knows. But her finding out brings about change - _th_ _e_ change; he’s scared, he realizes, of everything that comes after.

“ _Cap_.”

Martin jumps. The word is stressed, as if it’s been repeated more than once. He looks up and meets Kyle’s worried stare. He closes his eyes briefly, exasperated. The last thing he needs now is more questions, though Kyle seems to realize that - if a bit begrudgingly.

The boy takes a step back, looking anywhere but at Martin. Behind him, Zach is standing up straight - practically unheard of for him - and watching the scene with keen interest. His eyes don’t move from Martin’s face, and Martin feels them, his face flushing red at the contact.

“Kyle.” Zach’s voice is quite, monotone. The sound is like a magnet, though, pulling Kyle’s head suddenly from his critical study of the opposite wall back to him.

“Yeah?”

“Martin looks exhausted: probably sick. Let’s let the Captain rest and take all of these out on our own.” His dull eyes move from Kyle, piercing into Martin. He feels as if he’s under an x-ray machine, being picked apart bit by bit by his doctor. “Is it all unlocked, Martin?”

“Yes.”

Zach’s mouth twitches, and he moves forward, picking up a box. “Very good. We’ve got these - you take care of yourself, Captain.” He stands up straight, catching Martin’s eyes. “Don't push yourself too hard - you wouldn't want to leave us worried. Feel better, Martin.”

Without another word, Zach turns and leaves, trailing a spluttering Kyle behind him.

It only takes two sentences to widen Martin’s eyes and turn his breath into a stuttering mess. Zach saw right through him. He _is_ the smartest man in his class, but that doesn’t reassure Martin. If Zach, a man that he hardly talks to, knows at this point, Douglas and Carolyn will have no trouble figuring it out. He can’t resign in person - he’s waited too long.

He looks around the packed up room to find that he hasn’t, in fact, left any stray paper. As much as he hates to write a letter instead of typing it, he knows he won’t be able to muster up the energy to go over to the library and use a computer.

Zach and Kyle move around him, carrying out box after box until the room is left bare but for the dilapidated mattress below him.

Sighing, he stands shakily, stumbling to the doorway and gripping the door frame as a wave of dizziness throws thousands of black dots in front of his eyes. His hands shake as he moves one up to his face, trying to ground himself with a palm pressed firmly against his temple. He squeezes his eyes shut as his chest constricts harshly.

The first cough that wracks his frame should have set off bright red lights in his mind. He should have thrown himself back to his bed, back to where his phone is. Because that first cough _hurts_ , brings up unprecedented amounts of bile and blood - so much that he falls to his knees, gasping in surprise and pain. He opens his mouth in a silent shout, letting saliva-diluted blood drip from his lips as he watches in horror.

Time seems to slow to a halting step. The blood hits the floor with a crash, likely audible all the way to his usual hospital within the confines of London. Scarlet washes over his vision, the reality of the moment hitting him like a brass-knuckled fist: this blood is his; it's too late; it's happening _now_. Vaguely, he hears steps on the wooden floor in front of him, a manic shout.

And then he gasps.

Air flows with difficulty into his lungs, the oxygen quickly igniting the fire in his chest. His arms fly from the ground up, cradling his body protectively against the onslaught and he falls. Straining thighs giving out and he topples forward, barely even feeling the hard smack of wood against his head as he blacks out entirely from the pain.


	8. Chapter 8

Simon Crieff is not having a good day when he receives an unexpectedly early call from his mother.

To start, the vacation was going great. Until it wasn’t. The girls were bored, the older of the two desperate to return home for some sleepover that was meant to be _the_ party of the nine year old’s century. His wife was down with some kind of acute attempt at a biological assassination (or, as some call it, the flu), and they still had a six hour flight to sit through with a restless four year old.

That was all before the flight. Before, when Simon still believed himself to be a capable and sane father. After their return to England, he didn’t feel quite the same way.

He steps out of the airport with a hand clamped motionless to his head, and the other one gripping his youngest daughter - Samantha’s - hand as she tries to break free and run _directly_ into traffic.

From behind him, Vanessa coughs hoarsely as she tries to get Claire to smile for what would be the first time in nine hours. He’s so very close to snapping at his daughter and simply ripping the ever-buzzing mobile from her hand - the girl is lucky that he’s distracted by his own phone ringing.

As much as he loves his mother, he almost considers declining the call when he sees her name flash on the screen. Instead, he answers, muttering a brief “just a moment” before flagging down one of the few cabs in the relatively tiny city he calls his home. He can hear his mother nattering away on the receiver as he loads the luggage and the women into the taxi, and he rolls his eyes. He’d expected a call from her on the day of his return, sure, but not directly after landing. There had to be some kind of protocol about these things.

Once he’s settled himself in and given the directions to their modest home just outside of the main city, Simon leans back, blocking out the sounds of his daughters, and puts the phone to his ear.

“-cking but we’re not going fast enough. I need my prescription refilled and Caitlin has to go back home-”

“Mum.” Simon sits up, immediately on alert. His mother is panicked, breathing raggedly through the phone. “Mum I didn’t hear a word of that. I’m sorry, I was getting everything set up so we could head home. What on earth is going on?”

She takes a shaky breath, waiting several moments to compose herself before restarting. Behind him, Vanessa is quieting the girls. The whole car loses its chaotic quality within the span of a few seconds, the other occupants sensing the urgency in the call as Simon’s voice rises a few octaves in concern.

“It’s Martin,” she says. “Oh, Simon…”

~*~

He’s never been to the flats (if the building could be graced with such a name) that his brother lives in. He wonders why he hadn’t come sooner. He thinks that maybe, had he known some of what Martin was trying to live through, he might have been able to stop all of this. To stop the panicked call from his mother about Martin not answering his phone and his subsequent hour long drive to get to Fitton and check up on the man.

And really, man is too good a word at this point. _Idiot_ probably serves the purpose better. Because only idiots conceal a deadly disease from their own family. Furthermore, only idiots ignore said family and force them to come out looking.

A young woman with messy hair tied without care into an oversized bun answers the door, looking far more bored than she has any right to be at the moment. “Yeah?”

Simon takes a moment to calm his voice, standing as straight as possible to give off the air of adulthood professionalism he usually tries to exert around others. “I’m looking for Martin Crieff. I believe he lives here.”

The girl’s face scrunches up as she chews her gum thoughtfully. It smacks loudly when she seems to understand his query. “Right! The Cap. That’s what everyone else calls him...didn’t even know he had a name, really.”

Simon nods quickly, hoping to encourage her to go a bit faster. “That’s him. Now is he in?”

She scratches her head, leaning against the door frame and looking behind her. “Brandon,” she calls. “Is the Cap in?”

A voice, muffled but completely understandable comes from beyond. “Funny thing,” the voice - presumably Brandon - says. “I went up to ask if he wanted any tea, but all his stuff is gone. Looks like he moved out.”

“Without telling us?”

“Apparently. It didn’t look like he had anything to come back for.”

The woman shrugs and turns back to Simon. “You heard him. Guess the Cap’s out of here...about time too, from what I understand. Look if you ne- whoa! Hey!”

Simon doesn’t wait around for the rest of the sentence, instead turning harshly and running to the still-waiting cab. “Take me to Fitton’s airfield,” he says, voice almost at a shout. He leans back, tapping his fingers loudly against his jittering leg. If anyone knows where his brother is, it’ll be his friends at MJN.

~*~

The last thing Douglas expects, as he does weeks old paperwork in Martin’s stead, is for Simon Crieff, of all people, to come barreling through the door of the portacabin. His eyes emit a thousand different emotions at once, but everything else about him seems to be in perfect order. Douglas rolls his eyes. Politicians.

“Good evening, Mr. Crieff,” Douglas starts calmly, smirking at Herc’s amused chuckle. “You wouldn’t happen to be our illustrious missing client, would you?”

Simon, however, doesn’t seem to be listening, and Douglas’s smirk falls in a flash. The man’s head is turning from side to side, as if he doesn’t believe his eyes.

“You were supposed to have a flight tomorrow,” Simon says, his entire body looking as if it’s about one step away from pulsating with all the energy he’s exerting.

“It was moved to today. Though it seems our client missed that particular announcement,” Herc explains, standing. “You’re Martin’s brother, then?”

Simon ignores his hand, flipping around to stare at Douglas. “Where is he?” The words come out loud and rather high pitched. Douglas blinks and with a sinking feeling, he stands as well.

“Where is who?”

“Martin! Where is my brother?”

Douglas and Herc exchange a look. Before he can reply, Carolyn bursts out of her office, stopping short when she sees Simon there. Behind her, Arthur smiles.

“What is going on here?” she asks.

Arthur slips out from behind her, smiling up at Simon. “Is Martin feeling better, then?”

Simon takes a step back. “Of course he’s not ‘feeling better’!” He looks around the room. “Do you honestly not know where he’s gone?”

Carolyn steps forward, pulling her son back. “I suggest you look at his flat. Martin called in sick today.”

“He’s not there!” Simon explodes, looking at each of them imploringly. “His flatmates said he’s moved out! And he’s not here and apparently you have no bloody idea where he is.”

“Simon, is it?” Herc steps forward, hands raised. “Perhaps you could explain what’s happening.”

Simon’s eyes travel over each of their faces, taking in the confusion and worry etched there. Suddenly, his shoulders slump, and he takes a step back, leaning heavily against the wall. “He didn’t tell you either,” he whispers. “My god.”

Douglas perks up at the words. “Tell us what?” he demands.

Simon’s hand slides down his face, the single action alone seeming to age him a full decade. “My mother didn’t want to try to explain over the phone. All I know is that Martin’s sick - _really_ sick - and she hasn’t been able to get a hold of him.”

“How sick?” It’s Arthur that speaks, his now-meek voice booming throughout the room like thunder. Everyone shifts uncomfortably.

“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me a _damn_ thing.” He sighs. “But now he’s gone.”

A shrill ringing fills the room and Simon dives for his phone within his pocket.

“Mum,” he answers. “Hold on, I’m at MJN. I’m putting you on speaker.”

Wendy’s voice comes through the speaker, sounding shaky. “You’re at MJN? Martin’s flight isn’t until tomorrow - he shouldn’t be there. Why are you...”

“Hello, Wendy,” Carolyn says, hoping to get her to move on from her confusion. The words do the trick, effectively shaking Wendy out of her stupor.

“Well I suppose this is for the best,” she says. “I just got a call from your Fitton General hospital. Martin’s there for the night until he can be transferred. I’ll have to meet you there after Caitlin returns.”

The whole room is silent, every pair of eyes staring blankly at the phone as if it just insulted them.

A sob from the other end of the line breaks the trance, and everyone jumps into action packing things up.

“Mum,” Simon consoles, still standing against the wall as the room’s occupants fly around him. “It’s alright. It’s all going to be ok.”

She laughs, the sound breaking in the center and sounding dangerously close to another sob. “It’s too much. It’s moving too fast, Simon. Oh god.”

The flurry of activity stops, allowing everyone to hear the words. Douglas shoots a look at Carolyn and, though he’s obviously trying to keep his calm demeanor up, the terror is showing through. She looks to Arthur, standing against the opposite wall with his arms crossed in front of him in a sad facsimile of a hug.

Simon blessedly takes the phone off of speaker, placing it against his ear and stepping outside.

“We’ll take my car,” Carolyn says. She reaches for Arthur, gently pulling one of his arms from the prison against his chest.

Douglas throws the remainder of his things into his flight bag, pulling it over his shoulder with more force than necessary. He steps outside, thankful, at least, that it’s not raining.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So sorry about the long delay, everyone. Trying to study for finals took all of my time and I also had a bit of writer's block with this work as well as everything else I've been writing. Hopefully this chapter makes up for the wait, though. I hope you all enjoy!**

Douglas isn't sure what he's expecting when he walks into the hospital that day. Perhaps Martin laying calmly on his bed, annoyed at having been dragged to the place at all. Perhaps Martin watching Doctor Who as he so loves to do with Arthur, even if he won't admit it. Perhaps anything, really, besides the scene he's _actually_ graced with.

They're let into the ICU alongside Simon only barely. Murmurs of "he's not ready" and "stable but declining" float around them as they're led to Martin's private room (courtesy of one Wendy Crieff). They leave Simon behind in the hallway as he talks with the two students who brought Martin in, making Douglas the first to walk in.

Being caught speechless, having the air knocked completely from one’s lungs, being unable to move - these are actions Douglas Richardson in all of his fifty seven years is not at all experienced with. It takes a single pale, deathly skinny ginger wrapped in blankets and tubes to change this fact.

Carolyn pushes past him as he blocks the narrow doorway, stopping only centimeters from where he his. Vaguely, he hears Arthur whimper, distantly he hears Carolyn swear, but each of these sounds - all of the other sounds of a bustling hospital - are drowned out by the rasping breath of the fragile man in the bed. Slowly, Douglas moves forward on numb legs. His shaking hand finds a chair while his eyes stay on Martin and he falls into it. The sounds of the room begin to permeate Douglas’s mind and he hears himself sigh.

Never before in his life has Douglas not known what to say for such a prolonged period of time. He rubs his hands down his face, not knowing, as well, how he’s meant to feel.

He could be angry at Martin’s lack of disclosure, (lack of trust, really) but that seems pointless and a waste of time. He could be worried but that, too, seems fruitless at this juncture. He could be sad, already mourning, but that is the most unacceptable choice of them all. Because as soon as Douglas mourns for his friend, it means he’s lost his hope of Martin ever being able to make it through this - whatever _this_ is.

If there’s one thing Douglas has, it’s hope. Not for anything so menial as a miracle, of course. No, if there’s one thing Douglas Richardson has learned in his long life, it’s that miracles are only made, not received. As Martin is obviously not capable of doing so for himself, Douglas is going to have to produce a miracle in his stead.

He is, after all, a sky god.

 

~*~

The room is completely silent up until the point Wendy Crieff arrives. Arthur is staring at Martin, refusing to take his eyes from him, Carolyn is reading a magazine, (though Douglas can tell she’s having a hard time staying focused on it) and Simon is alternately texting his wife and looking anywhere in the room except Martin’s face. Douglas can’t stand it; all of his near-useless years in medical school always stressed the importance of family understanding, lowering shock, how hopeless it would feel to them. He wishes they were different - separate from the status quo.

He wants to scream. Nearly stands up and offers a game to play so that it’s not so bloody quiet. He hates the silence only until it’s gone. It’s only when Wendy Crieff walks in, already supporting herself on Caitlin, and practically falls to Martin’s bed sobbing that Douglas recognizes just how blessed that silence was.

The entire room save for Arthur stands instantly but that’s as far as they get. No one wants to halt her grief - not when they all want to do the same - but it hurts them to see a person so completely torn to shreds as Wendy is.

She keeps glancing at Martin, as if making sure he’s not waking up and that’s what makes Douglas look away. He understands exactly what she’s doing, it’s what any parent would do: keeping up a strong front for the child. She wouldn’t be doing this if Martin was awake. Suddenly, Douglas understands why Martin kept all of this secret for so long, at least somewhat. He takes after his mother in so many ways, the need to shield others from sorrow being number one.

Time passes in the most unusual fashion. It feels as if hours and days are passing as Wendy continues to cry, yet from the time she enters to the time Carolyn steps forward, it’s only been a minute.

“Wendy,” she says tentatively. “We’ve all had a stressful day, and it’s certainly taken its toll.”

Wendy sniffs in response, a quiet, hopeless laugh escaping her lips as she wipes her eyes.

“You’ve spent all day scrambling to get down here,” Carolyn continues. “Allow me to treat you to dinner. Or coffee.”

“I can’t,” she gasps. “I can’t leave.”

“You can because if you don’t Martin will wake up and see just how upset you are.”

That makes the woman freeze and sit up. “He won’t…”

“He will,” Carolyn confirms. “I mean no offense, but you look a wreck. Just take an hour to relax. You, Simon, Caitlin - all of you need to get out for a moment and regroup.”

Wendy frowns and looks once more at her child, cheeks sallow and pale. “Someone needs to...what if he...”

Douglas steps forward, then, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I will stay. I ate just before you arrived as it is.”

She stares at him, taking in his relatively calm demeanor and his obvious lie. She glances up at the window, made reflective by the night sky and cringes. “Fine,” she says, standing haltingly. She takes a deep breath and attempts a smile. “Sorry. Yes. Dinner would be lovely. We haven’t eaten all day.” Wendy grasps Caitlin’s hand and turns quickly, walking towards the door without looking back.

Carolyn rubs her hands across Arthur’s shoulders, slowly encouraging him to stand and move away. She glances at Douglas, face impassive as she walks slowly by.

Simon watches them go and looks at Douglas. His eyes travel almost without conscious thought to Martin and he forces himself to look back, clenching his jaw.

“I was told they were going to transfer him to a specialist hospital in London either tonight or tomorrow.”

Douglas nods.

“I live closer to there than here, and my wife is sick.” His face scrunches up, almost as if he’s in pain. “I need to go home and get things settled for now, I can meet you at the London hospital. That’s what I should do, but...”

For once in his life, Douglas doesn’t comment, instead waiting as Simon continues to war with himself.

“What if he doesn’t get moved? What if he deteriorates suddenly and I can’t get back? I don’t even know what’s wrong with him, what’s supposed to happen.”

Douglas clenches his hand, moving forward and patting Simon’s shoulder. He’s never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, even in the most dire of times. He can tell that Simon is the same. The man is used to confidence, used to being the rock of his family. Now he’s lost, much like Douglas.

“You should go,” Douglas says, after a few moments. “You should go home and settle things and trust that I’ll be here to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“You can’t promise that,” Simon whispers.

“I think you’ll find that I can.” He gives his best reassuring smile. “None of us know what’s going on - apparently we find out exactly what all this is from those doctors in London. But I can tell you that no matter what it is, I’ll prevent it from doing anymore harm to your brother.”

He glances back at Martin before turning back to Simon. “I don’t normally get sentimental, but I believe these are most unusual circumstances so I will tell you this: your brother is my best friend, and I’m a rather selfish man. Without him, my life would be rather dull and tedious. I won’t let him go without a fight.”

Simon’s eyes move rapidly over his face, taking in the determination there. He smiles and extends his hand, taking Douglas’s in a firm shake. “Thank you,” he says. “I knew it the moment I saw you - my brother is in good hands.” He steps away, looks at Martin, and blinks long and hard. “You’re all so kind, I wonder why my brother couldn’t see it.”

Simon walks out and immediately Douglas’s shoulders slump. “I suspect that he could see it,” he murmurs, taking his seat directly next to the bed. “You foolishly wanted to protect us from it.” He watches Martin, waiting for some kind of reaction; an indignant huff of breath, a red-faced argument, a mouth open in surprise. All he gets is a twitch of an eye. Nothing more.

“It failed spectacularly of course,” Douglas continues, sitting back in his seat and staring at the ceiling. “You kept it secret to fulfil some misplaced sense of nobility, and only ended up worrying us more. What in the world were you trying to accomplish?”

Martin coughs, throwing Douglas immediately to attention. “Martin?” His hand, almost without him noticing, grasps Martin’s wrist, feeling the pulse speed slightly as he makes his way into consciousness.

Below him, Martin’s eyes twitch rapidly before they open the smallest amount. Immediately the lines in his face become more pronounced as his whole face contorts in pain. He blinks that away within seconds, however, as he looks around the room, confusion growing. Finally, his eyes settle on Douglas and he closes his eyes, almost in exasperation.

“Martin,” he says again.

“Please don’t.” Martin’s voice comes out scratchy, almost desperate in its fervor.

Douglas has to lean back in surprise at the words. “I...”

“Please. Of all of them, this is the worst dream.”

Douglas blinks. Without warning, he feels choked up - completely out of his element here. “Martin it’s not...it’s not a dream.”

Martin sighs and looks away. “Of course it is. You’re not supposed to be here otherwise. I made sure of that.”

Douglas can do nothing but stare at him, mouth open. His jaw closes with an audible click and his hands clench. “Well you didn’t do a very good job, Martin. I find it’s a bit hard to hide a life threatening disease when your mother calls in tears one day, after you’ve been rushed to the hospital by a couple of students who just happened to be around after you’d bloody well moved out of your flat.”

Martin’s eyes widen but he doesn’t say anything.

Meanwhile Douglas is battling with himself. He wants to let his anger continue to override his concern but he can’t stress Martin. God knows the boy probably already feels guilty for even being here, the foolish git. He can’t help himself, though, when he goes on to ask, “when exactly were you going to resign, then?”

Martin cringes. “One more flight. I was supposed to get that.”

The words hit Douglas like a bucket of ice water. Martin won’t look at him, instead staring out the window at the lights of the city. He looks so tired, so much older than he should ever have the right to. He’s in pain and Douglas did nothing more than poke his open wounds with a stick. “Martin, I’m sorry. God that was...” he runs a hand through his hair, mussing it even more than before.

“It’s fine,” Martin whispers.

“No. It’s not fine. That was awful. I was just worried, Martin, and I took out my stress on you. That’s not fair.”

Martin smiles. “Isn’t it, though? It’s my fault.”

“It is most definitely not your fault, it’s the fault of your unlucky genetics, or so I’m told. You hid it, and while I concede that was a foolish idea, you’ve been discovered. As such, we’ll be taking over from here. Whatever you need to get better, we’re going to help you.”

Obviously Martin can’t move too quickly; Douglas imagines that, were Martin at full capacity, the current movement of his head might be akin to “whipping it around”. For now, it looks like a slow turn, his eyes never wavering as they watch Douglas.

“You can’t do anything. That’s why-,”

Douglas holds up a hand, shaking his head with a certain finality reserved only for experienced fathers. “And here we find the seed of your irrationality. You, Captain, have lost your hope. I’m here to bring it back. We are going to make you better, Martin.”

Martin blinks, so long that Douglas nearly thinks he’s fallen asleep again. When he opens his eyes, he looks so unexplainably sad that Douglas has to take a breath, almost looking away.

“This is exactly what I wanted to avoid,” he whispers, turning his head to once again look through the window.

Douglas purses his lips and takes a breath. “It would seem Sir has lost faith in my propensity for getting us out of dire situations. I do believe I have the capacity to share some of my boundless luck.”

Martin’s eyes close and he turns his head just enough to be able to glance at Douglas from beneath his lashes. He sighs. He looks away once more. Most important of all, though it’s faint: he smiles.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Happy New Year, everyone! (And happy Sherlock release date to you fellow fans out there). In celebration of the holiday, I'm posting an early chapter~.**
> 
> **You may have noticed the new official chapter count. It's tentative, but I believe that's about how many chapters this story has left, if my planning works out like it should; I'm very excited to finish this up. I just want to thank you all for sticking with this, and I hope you all enjoy the rest of the story.**

Only moments after their conversation, Martin falls asleep again. Douglas thinks it a blessing, frankly: it’s obvious he’s in pain, and that he’s exhausted. Until they can get him moved and settled into more capable hands, Martin is dependent on small mercies. Douglas only hopes that his slack face is an indication of pleasant dreams.

When the others return, Douglas informs them of Martin’s consciousness. A good decision, he decides, when he sees Wendy’s tense shoulders loosen up the slightest bit. She looks to her son as soon as Douglas finishes speaking, replacing him in the bedside seat and gripping Martin’s hand with a gentle sort of conviction. She doesn’t look anywhere but at him.

“That was good of you,” Caitlin murmurs to Carolyn as they stand along the back wall of the room, finally settled in after their return.

“She would have done the same thing were our roles reversed,” Carolyn replies slowly, obviously distracted. Her eyes, much like everyone else’s, aren’t straying from the man in the bed.

From the corner of his eye, Douglas sees Caitlin shrug, hesitating. “I’m not sure she would be so calm. I don’t know how you do it.”

“Good acting.”

Douglas blinks. The words are terse and unexpected. He knows Carolyn’s tells - can see how rigid Martin’s condition is making her. She reverts to a military sort of demeanor when things go bad, and her straight, poised shoulders depict that. What Douglas has never heard, however, is Carolyn admitting to being out of her depth.

He glances at her as she clenches her jaw tightly. The words were a slip, and he can tell. For a brief moment he considers patting her shoulder in reassurance. The woman is so used to being the foundation - the rock that keeps their ever-fluctuating company steady - and such an admittance of weakness, in her mind, means she’s failed at least a bit.

His hand raises just slightly, but she seems to sense the movement, and the intent behind it. She shoots him a look and he relents. On one hand, he thinks it’s foolish of her to try to keep things bottled up. It’s exactly what Martin did and...well. They can see how that ended up for everyone. On the other hand, though, he understands. He doesn’t want anyone trying to comfort _him_. Why should she be any different? In all honesty, they’re very similar when it comes to these matters; whatever _these matters_  might be called, at this point.

Beside Carolyn, Arthur yawns and she sucks in a breath of trepidation. Douglas glances around, but there isn’t a suitable place to sleep, and he can see Carolyn realizing the same thing. Carolyn wants to leave as much as Douglas does, that is: not at all; yet her son’s need for sleep - left mostly unacknowledged until just now - necessitates their departure.

“Arthur,” she says, still not taking her eyes from the bed. “Let’s go home, darling. You’re tired.”

“No.” His voice is firm - more mature and decisive than Douglas has ever heard it before.

She starts, surprised at the words. “Arthur, you need sleep. We all do, frankly-,”

“Mum I said no. I’m sorry; I know how you get when I don’t listen to you but I’m not leaving Skip.”

From the bedside, Wendy looks back towards them. Her face softens sympathetically as she watches the steward. For his part, Douglas is staring sidelong at the confrontation, eyes wide. He’s never heard Arthur blatantly disobey his mother, and he’s almost afraid of the possible repercussions. However, when he looks at Carolyn, he’s surprised to see a grim smile on her face.

“I completely understand, dear heart.” She steps over to him, putting her arm around his waist. Arthur lays his head against hers and sighs. “If you need a rest, I can assure you that Martin won’t mind if you use a chair to get a bit of sleep - we can probably bring another one or two in here from the hallway. In fact I’m sure he’d prefer it. We’ll wake you up if anything changes.”

“Promise?”

“Of course.”

Douglas looks away then, twitching when their pseudo-sanctuary is interrupted by the arrival of a kind-faced nurse.

“Preparations have been made to move Mr. Crieff. As he’s been stable for so long, we should have no problem in the transfer. We may depart at any time. Two people can ride with him.” He looks at all of them, a strained smile on his face. “Perhaps three, but it’ll take some convincing.”

Caitlin walks over to her mother, helping her up. “My mother can go,” she says, “Carolyn and Arthur can join her.”

“Caitlin that really isn’t necessary,” Carolyn starts, but she’s cut off by a smile.

“As far as I can tell, I’m the most fit to drive.” Douglas wants to snort - the bags under her eyes speak otherwise, but truly, she is the best looking of them all. “And Douglas here needs some food and some rest. He’ll ride with me.”

The nurse nods, smiling when no one else has any objections. “Sounds like a plan. We’ll have some nurses in here shortly to get everything ready.” The nurse nods at them before he steps back outside.

“You didn’t have to do that, Caitlin.” Carolyn’s voice is a mixture of gratitude and chastisement. None of them want to leave Martin for the long journey but, despite that feeling running through her, she feels guilty for taking Caitlin’s rightful place.

“Truly, it’s fine. We’re all going to the same place. Besides, I’m interested in having a little chat with Douglas here.”

Douglas raises his eyebrows in question but doesn’t comment as he follows Caitlin from the room.

“We’ll get a head start. Call me if anything happens,” Caitlin says as she shuts the door to Martin’s room, glancing at Douglas to make sure he’s following before making her way down the hallway.

They’re silent as they weave their way through corridors. As soon as the front doors slide open, Caitlin breathes a small sigh, turning to smile at Douglas. “My car’s just that way,” she says, pointing to the left hand side of the large parking lot.

Douglas nods but chooses not to say anything as he follows her. He notices how her shoulders have relaxed the slightest bit, her gait just that much more open: she hates the hospital. Simon had mentioned something about loathing the place as well ever since their father’s death - he wonders if Caitlin is tense within the confines of the building for the same reason. If that’s the case, it would mean Martin’s actions are even more understandable than before.

He shakes his head, watching the ground as they walk. It would seem several outside factors within Martin’s life came together just perfectly to make him feel guilty about something he had no chance of controlling. His father’s death, his mother’s personality, MJN’s financial status, Arthur’s forever optimistic personality - all things that would give Douglas himself pause when considering how to break the news, let alone Martin with his already massively deflated self-confidence.

“You look like you’re thinking very hard about something.”

Douglas blinks. Caitlin’s voice is unexpected and quiet, and he looks up to find her with a small smile on her face, standing at the side of her car and staring at him expectantly.

Douglas purses his lips, considering whether or not his train of thought is worth sharing, and instead asks, “What are your thoughts about Martin’s secrecy?”

She looks surprised at the question, and then briefly angry before her face falls slack and she shakes her head. “He told Mum and me.” She glances at him. “Only a few days ago, mind.” She sighs, looking around. “Get in the car.”

For once in his life, Douglas follows the order without question. The terseness in her voice broaches no argument, and he settles in without a word. He expects the conversation to be over when Caitlin gets in and turns the key silently, yet she picks it back up as they turn onto the road.

“He mentioned Dad when he told us.” The words are clipped and quiet, her hands tightening on the steering wheel. “He’s probably mentioned to you - or maybe he hasn’t. Who knows, at this point. It’s no matter, all you need to know is that my dad died in a hospital like this one. He’d been pretty sick for a few years, and he declined suddenly. He was rushed to hospital and stayed there for a few days before he died.

“Martin was as affected by that as we all were. Our dad’s sickness was something that was survivable, according to the doctors, so when he kept getting worse, it was a heavy burden. The days spent there were at first frantic and then silent and hopeless. I hate hospitals now, since then, and I know for a fact that Simon does as well.”

She chuckles and her face turns red with emotion. Douglas turns his head to look out of the window, giving her as much privacy as he can. It’s quiet while she simply breathes.

“Martin is an idiot.”

Douglas looks back at her at the words, seeing that she’s still trying to reign in her emotion. He remains silent, allowing her to rant.

“I’m sorry, but I just can’t get over this. He’s an _idiot_. My whole family is full of idiots who think they need to be martyrs; it’s ridiculous and I hate it. Dad tried to hide his physical pain from us when he was still alive, Mum hides away everything she’s feeling that might make us the least bit upset until she either has to lock herself away or explodes with it. And Martin! Martin picked up both of those stupid traits. How could he be so foolish? How could he be so blind? What was he expecting to accomplish?”

Douglas watches her, waiting as she takes several calming breaths, a few tears falling down her face only to be angrily wiped away. When it seems as if she’s done for a bit, Douglas clears his throat.

“Your brother is an idiot, I grant,” Douglas smirks at her, trying to lighten the mood, “but not as much as you think, in regards to this, at least. He’s prideful and he hates conflict and, most of all, he worries. He picked up your parents’ traits, as you said: he worried about your mother’s - and everyone’s - response, he worried about the possible outcomes, he likely even worried about our company’s future. It made him feel guilty and alone. I’m angry at your brother too. Furious, in fact; and when he’s better I’m going to make sure he knows just how foolish this all was. Until then, though, I’m going to take a page from your mother’s book and keep that emotion from the fore.”

Caitlin’s hands loosen and she spreads her fingers out, attempting to relax herself. “You say that as if you’re sure he’s going to be ok.”

“It’s because I am.”

She smiles at him. “That was actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve heard the stories, Mr. Richardson. You are the go-to man for crises. What’s your plan here? Why are you so certain?”

Douglas grimaces at the blunt words. It’s not as if he has a step-by-step proposal drafted out - all he has right now is determination, and that’s what he tells her. “I don’t even know what this is, yet,” he explains when she looks slightly crestfallen. “But when I find out, I can assure you I will do everything in my power to ensure that your brother survives this.”

“But you can’t guarantee it? I mean - it’s not like I expected you to perform a miracle or anything. You’ve just seemed so _sure_ since he woke up…”

“I can guarantee it as much as I can guarantee any one of my plans,” Douglas interrupts. “And, as you seem to have heard, I have an excellent track record. I’m sure because I have confidence in my ability to think in a pinch, and it sounded as if you did as well.”

She shrugs, eyes not leaving the road. “I could use _something_ to be confident in right now, really.”

“In that case, you can stop your search; we’ll pull this off”

“It’s really not for show then? Not some attempted reassuring bravado? You truly believe we can help him get through this?”

Douglas watches her until she glances his way at a red light. “Don’t you?”

She grins.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **With this chapter I'm going to be returning to weekly updates until the end. This one's a shorter chapter, but I hope you enjoy all the same.**
> 
> **As always, if you see any glaring medical errors, feel free to let me know. I've tried to do as much research as I can, but I've found making up a disease makes research a bit difficult.**

Despite having stopped for food on the way, Caitlin and Douglas arrive to the hospital first. The news, once revealed by the receptionist, throws them both into a quiet panic in which they each check their phones for any missed calls or texts indicating a problem. They find nothing, and Douglas rolls his eyes at himself as he keeps scrolling through his recent calls, hating the sudden uncertainty.

“Excuse me. Are you two here for Martin Crieff?”

Caitlin and Douglas spin around to find the owner of the voice, both of them glad to find a kind-looking nurse standing a few feet from them. “Yes,” Caitlin says. “I’m Caitlin Crieff, and this is Douglas Richardson.”

“Trisha White,” she responds, extending her hand for Caitlin to shake. “I’ve heard about the two of you. I’m sorry it’s taken this long for us to properly meet.”

Douglas raises an eyebrow, shaking her hand after Caitlin and carefully looking the woman over. She’s shorter than Douglas - probably even shorter than Martin, even. She’s stout, with a head of light blonde hair tied up into a bun and a gorgeous smile. Somehow, he’s already comforted by her. “You’ve worked with Martin, then?”

“Ever since he was referred here. We specialize in rare diseases - as such, we don’t have as large a flow of patients as other hospitals. That means our patients get assigned one or two nurses to their case, along with their doctor. The consistency makes everything a little easier, I think.”

Douglas nods. “So you can explain what’s happening with Martin, then?”

Immediately, Nurse White’s smile falters. “He didn’t tell you?”

“He gave _me_ a brief explanation,” Caitlin says. “But it would seem myself and my mother were the only ones he talked to.”

“I’m so sorry,” Trisha shakes her head. “I tried to convince him, but he was adamant.”

“It’s not your fault; he’s quite stubborn,” Douglas says.

The words bring Trisha’s comforting smile back, and she looks between them. “Well. Hopefully that will work in his favor.”

Douglas’s mouth tilts up at the corners - not quite a smile, but closer than he’s gotten in the last twenty four hours. “I’m sure it will,” he responds.

“Doctor Shaw has the week off, but he’ll be coming in for Martin. He should be here in the morning. Until then, I’ll lead you to Martin’s room.”

The pass by the front desk and Trisha receives a clipboard, quickly looking through it as they walk to the elevators.

“Martin’s disease is extremely rare,” she explains. “It’s complex because it’s a mix of different symptoms of a wide range of diseases that ultimately result in something like multiple organ dysfunction syndrome.” She glances back at them as they walk. “I won’t bore you with a longer explanation than that - all the information from there sounds a bit like a medical dictionary.”

Douglas hums. “Might I request that you do go a bit more in depth? I attended medical school for a time, so I don’t believe I’ll be too lost, and I’d like a more comprehensive view of what’s happening.”

Trisha glances at him again, lips pursed in consideration, and nods. “Martin was coughing blood because his organs are, for lack of a better word, being attacked - like an autoimmune disease but not quite as simple in its singularity. Similarly, he’s experiencing headaches because of a slight but not fatal inflammation in his brain. The disease started there: in his brain. It is turning his body against certain organs while also causing their degeneration. He’s experiencing organ failure in two ways and the rapid deterioration - the trauma done to his body, more than anything - results in respiratory failure.”

Douglas nods, not yet sure what to do with the diagnosis. It's a difficult thing to hear, but he's not going to back down just yet, no matter how bleak it might look. “So what, exactly, is affected?”

“Not as much as you might think, initially,” Trisha says, opening the door to a room in the ICU ward. “Kidneys and liver are first, followed in quick succession by the lungs. Occasionally a problem arises in the stomach and small bowel, but that’s even rarer than the disease itself. If necessary, he may need a full scale blood transfusion as well. Our studies have shown that some patients require that, though we’re still unclear as to what makes that a necessity so far into the progression of the disease.”

Douglas takes a seat next to Caitlin, revelling briefly in the considerably larger room at this hospital. “The heart isn't affected?”

“No, thankfully. The disease is so fatal because of how rapid the degeneration is against other important parts of the body. We can’t keep him alive with machines because of the speed, which is why he needs transplants.” Trisha sighs. “I’ll be honest, though: his case is a dire one, but so is that of so many others in the country who are on the transplant list. I’m not sure we’ll be in time. And even if we are, I’m not sure Martin’s condition will allow for recovery.”

Douglas considers, watching as Trisha switches tasks to getting the room prepared for Martin’s arrival. “How does your Doctor Shaw feel about living transplants?”

“We’ve considered that for the kidneys, of course," Trisha says. "Caitlin, here, is the only most likely candidate, as she's immediate family. Martin’s brother and mother, when they arrive, would be the next best choices. His mother, however, is too close to the age limit and too unstable in regards to her health to be considered.”

“Well you’ll have to test me, as well. And I’m sure Arthur and Carolyn won’t object either.”

Trisha looks at him, nodding. “If you insist. I can’t guarantee that you or your friends will be accepted for the procedure, though. As you’re not related, tissue compatibility is unlikely - with percentages less than seventy or even sixty for successful retention of the organ in the host. We’ll need to test you all extensively before any procedures.”

He waves his hand. “Of course. If I am a match, might I be able to donate part of my liver as well? Or even my lung, if it comes to that?”

Trisha freezes, holding the corner sheet of the bed in her hand. “Those are very rare procedures…”

“And this is a very rare disease; I believe the situation calls for it, don’t you?”

“The thing is, Mr. Richardson-,”

“Douglas, please.”

She nods. “Douglas. That procedure coupled with a kidney transplant is almost too dangerous to perform so close together. You need to give your body time to rest.”

“Time that Martin doesn't have." Caitlin sits up, watching Douglas as she speaks. "But if there are three of us, at least, that are compatible, could it work?”

Trisha bites her lip. “Now this is all up to the doctor, of course, but it’s plausible. It’s by no means a fix; Martin needs full organs.”

“And I wasn’t suggesting that it was,” Douglas says. “I’m sure my liver isn’t quite up to par, and I’d hate for Martin to be stuck with it for long. But if we all donate something to Martin, he has more of a chance, does he not? At least until a new organ becomes available?”

Trisha smiles widely at him. “It’s complex and it’ll be very hard for all of the participants - especially Martin, in his state - but it’s better than nothing.”

Douglas claps his hands together and stands, full of a new optimistic energy. “Perfect. In that case, I’m going out. Caitlin, might I trouble you for use of your car?”

Caitlin stares at him in confusion. “What for?” she asks, even as she rummages in her bag for the keys.

“To drive to the local reporter’s, of course. As much as I trust the ability of the NHS Organ registry, I don’t want to rely solely on that when there are more options. I’ve heard making a plea has been known to bring quick results, and I’m not keen on leaving any stone unturned.”

Caitlin stares up at him with a small smile; her eyes are full of a newfound hope that Douglas feels beginning to flow through him as well. “Thank you.”

“Ah don’t thank me yet, Ms. Crieff; we’ve still got a ways to go.” Douglas takes the keys, feeling as if he’s about ready to start vibrating with all of this energy. They might actually be able to pull this off.


	12. Chapter 12

He’s flying and it’s wonderful. For the first time in months, it’s perfect.

He feels incredible. No headache is bogging him down, no pain in his abdomen, no lethargy in his limbs - he feels as if he, rather than the plane, is flying; a feeling he’s craved ever since he can remember wanting to be an aeroplane. Douglas is sitting next to him, staring straight ahead with a look of indifferent boredom on his face.

Martin has no idea where they’re going, but he finds he doesn’t much care. It’s been so long since he’s sat in GERTI without the weight of pain on his part and confused concern on Douglas’s making the air murky and near-unbearable. Sitting in the captain’s seat feels so much like it used to - no suffocating seriousness, only pure contentment. He feels happy like this, so much so that he can’t stop a slow grin from spreading across his face.

Next to him, Douglas twitches, turning to stare at Martin.

“Ah. Is Sir finally awake, then?”

Martin blinks, looking around. “Er. Yes?”

Douglas rolls his eyes and turns back to looking forward. “Too little too late, I suppose.”

Martin blinks again, suddenly feeling very out of place and confused, the relaxation he felt only moments before scurrying away without a trace. “I don’t understand. Douglas? I wasn’t sleeping on a flight, was I?”

Douglas gawks at him, looking both incredulous and annoyed. “You sleep on every flight, Martin. I don’t know why you even bother to show up anymore.”

“I d-don’t understand. Why am I-. What’s happening? Douglas?”

“Hell if I know, Martin. You never talk to us. The real question is why are you even here? Why did you chose to stick around at all, if you’re going to be so useless?”

Martin looks around, and now the plane is sitting on the ground in Fitton. He’s confused and scared of Douglas's tone of voice and insinuations. His breath is speeding up with emotion. “I’m not...I’m not useless. I wanted to help. Without me you’d shut down. I just wanted to make sure everything was going to be...to be _ok_  for as long as it could be.”

Douglas scoffs, standing quickly. “Well you failed, Martin. Haven’t you heard the term ‘the sooner the better’? We would’ve been so much better off if you’d just left.” He grabs onto Martin’s wrist, wrenching him harshly from the seat and around into the galley.

“You really don’t understand, do you?” he hisses, pulling Martin along.

“Douglas, stop. That hurts.”

But Douglas ignores him, instead walking through the cabin of the aeroplane that is continually extending in front of them.

“Douglas? Douglas! Where’s Arthur? Carolyn?”

Douglas stops, spinning around and shoving Martin to the ground. “You couldn’t just die like a normal person, could you?” he yells.

Martin stares at him, eyes wide and frightened. He’s never seen Douglas get so angry; even when Martin’s gotten on his bad side, Douglas hasn't ever been so blunt and cruel.  

“You had to drag it out for months. And what good did that do, Martin? What did you accomplish? I’ll tell you. Nothing! No good came of you sticking around for as long as you could. You pulled us down with you, bringing your stupid, petty little depression to all of us. You should have quit, should have left to feel sorry for yourself on your own time.”

Tears are filling Martin’s eyes, and suddenly, the room swirls. Now they’re standing in a graveyard. “Douglas.”

“If we’d known early on we could have saved money, hired someone new. You just left and where did that leave us? I’ll show you.” His arm rises quickly, pointing to a hunched figure in the graveyard. Martin looks closer, and sees that it’s Arthur, gripping a tombstone harshly. Carolyn is leaning against a nearby tree, rolling her eyes and looking more tired than Martin has ever seen her.

“You died and MJN died with you.”

“No.” Martin shakes his head. “No. That wasn’t supposed to happen. That wasn't the plan.”

“Well, we all know how your plans usually work out Martin. Arthur won’t talk anymore, Carolyn is broke, and I’m out of the job and practically out of my house. You’re an idiot, Martin. You practically killed us because you were selfish enough to stick around.”

“I just wanted...” He chokes, a few tears fall down his face. “I was lonely.”

He sniffs, staring at the tombstone in front of Arthur. There’s no doubt in his mind as to who that belongs to, and the thought sends a feeling of fear through him. It grips his chest with an iron fist while a voice in his head chastises him for every decision made up to this point, every small spark of hope. “I just wanted more time,” he gasps, unable to pull in a full breath.

Douglas kneels down, gripping Martin’s shoulders. “What did you just say?”

“I wanted more time,” Martin cries as the world starts to swirl again. He stares at Douglas, realization creeping slowly through him. He whispers, “I want more time.”

Douglas’s face contorts, his hands still gripping Martin's shoulders. His mouth opens and he says Martin’s name, over and over again. “Martin.”

“Martin.”

“ _Martin_.”

Martin opens his eyes with a gasp, cringing at the harsh movement. Trisha’s face is above his, watching him with worry.

“There you are.” She lets go of his shoulders, smiling uncertainly at him. Behind her, his mother and Caitlin are standing next to Carolyn and Arthur, all of them are staring at him in what seems like fear.

Martin lifts a shaking arm, wiping at his tear stained face.

“You were having a nightmare, Martin,” Trisha explains.

Martin nods - he’d guessed that much. He glances at Arthur and Carolyn, taking in their faces with relief; they look infinitely more lively than their dream counterparts.

“This is going to sound like a foolish question, Martin, but how are you feeling?”

Martin bites his lip, thinking. He suspects he has a heavy amount of painkillers running through his body now - everything feels numb and far away. Only quick movement incites a flare of pain, though it’s nothing more than what he’s used to. He nods at Trisha, muttering a quiet, “fine, considering.”

The room's occupants breathe a collective sigh of relief at the sound of his voice, as cracked and dry as it is, and his mother rushes forward to latch onto his hand. Trisha, meanwhile, backs up, nodding her understanding. “You know where to find me if there’s a problem, Martin. I know you just woke up, but I’m going to say it anyway: get some rest. I’ll be back in awhile.”

Caitlin thanks her as she walks out. Martin ignores her in favor of watching his mother. She doesn’t seem quite as distressed as he would have thought, and he wonders whether she’s holding everything back or if she’s as hopeful as Douglas is. He tries to hope it’s the former, only so she doesn’t have to deal with the aftermath following what’s supposed to happen, yet he can’t find his usual conviction.

She leans forward, cleaning his face of the remaining tear tracks. “Caitlin tells me Douglas has figured out a way to help you, dear.”

“Oh I assure you it wasn’t just me. Nurse White was very important in the discussion,” Douglas says as he walks in, pulling off his jacket and handing car keys to Caitlin.

Martin looks over to him with a frown. “Douglas. I told you no-,” he’s cut off by a cough, and Wendy rushes to grab the bowl at the bedside for him to choke into. By the end of it he’s left clutching his stomach, having completely forgotten about what he was going to say to the man. He waits for Douglas to speak, totally lacking the energy at the moment to even look up at him, let alone try to pick up the conversation.

“You told me a great many things the last time you were awake,” Douglas says into the silent room, a few moments after Martin’s fit is over. “And I responded in kind, telling you my intentions. I informed you that I’d be working to get you out of this, Martin, and I believe we may have found a few ways to do so.”

Martin leans back, too tired to argue as Douglas reiterates his earlier discussion with his nurse, trying to ignore the way everyone’s face lights up at the news. He remembers a time years ago when his father’s doctor informed them that his illness was in no way fatal - that he would live a long life if he stuck to the proper regimen of medication and doctor’s visits. The two situations are so similar in nature that Martin isn’t sure whether he wants to vomit or laugh.

“So we only have to wait for Martin’s doctor to see if we can go through with it?” Wendy asks, her voice lively and innocent, tinged with a newfound optimism.

“Correct. Though I suspect we can at least begin testing for compatibility for the kidneys and blood, should the full-scale transfusion be necessary,” Douglas says, glancing through the window of the door, tilting his head to catch a nurse’s eye.

“She said I should most likely be compatible,” Caitlin says. “I’ll definitely be donating.”

“If you’re capable, my dear,” Trisha says, appearing practically from nowhere. “We determine compatibility on a case-by-case basis. Your health may not allow you to participate in surgery.”

Caitlin takes a step forward, her face turning red with indignation, much in the same fashion as Martin. Trisha holds up her hands, stopping her tirade before it can begin.

“I’m only warning you. I’m sure you’ll be fine.” She glances around. “I’m assuming by the conversation we want to begin testing, then?”

Martin closes his eyes as his friends and family all decide on the order. It’s out of his hands now. He tried, truly, yet here they all are. Martin waits, trying to feel the anger and hopelessness as it descends on him, but, he finds, it’s not there.

In fact, he finds that the hope his companions are relentlessly clinging to doesn’t upset him as much as it once did.

He might even say, were he so inclined, that he’s glad for this: selfishly pleased. They haven’t given up on him. They’re all willing to go into surgery and give a piece of themselves for him. _To_ him. They are all his personal support system, something he’s needed since the very beginning, but refused to believe it. Refused to see it.

He is cared for.

He is cherished.

He is loved.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **It's taken me a little longer than expected, but I've finally worked out all the kinks! I just want to say thank you to everyone who's read this up to now, to everyone who has kudos'd, and to all those who have commented. Seeing people enjoying this has kept me going with it even when I got stuck.**
> 
> **As you can see, this is the second to last chapter. Originally I wanted to post the last one and this one together, but it's late where I am and I have a big test tomorrow; if there are any spelling/grammar mistakes, that's why :). Feel free to let me know. The next chapter will be up soon - tentatively Wednesday night. Enjoy!**

Douglas doesn’t notice that Martin has once again fallen asleep until after Caitlin is led out of the room, a look of pure determination on her face. The expression reminds Douglas so much of Martin in St.Petersburg, and for a moment his chest is gripped tightly by fear of never being able to see that look on his captain's face again. The door closes behind the two women and Douglas blinks out of his brief stupor, walking over to the bed and sinking into the chair across from Wendy’s, staring lazily at the unconscious man on the bed.

Martin’s face is slack with sleep, yet it seems more open somehow - more relaxed.

“He was smiling, you know.”

Douglas’s eyes close in a long, slow blink before he turns his gaze to the woman in front of him. “Hm?”

“Martin. He fell asleep as you all were deciding your order. I noticed that he started smiling. It was small, but it was there.”

Douglas’s eyes are drawn slowly back to his copilot, and he continues watching him.

“It’s thanks to you.”

Douglas sits up straight at that. “Truly, it’s not.”

Wendy shrugs. “Perhaps not wholly, but there’s no doubt in my mind that your optimism has been the primary factor in keeping all of our heads above water. You’re steady in all of this, and that’s transferred to us and - in turn - my son. So thank you.”

Douglas looks away, unsure of what to say, and catches sight of Carolyn and Arthur, both slumped in chairs against the far wall. Carolyn is watching the conversation with exhausted interest, and Arthur is sleeping with his head against his palm.

Douglas smiles at Arthur, impressed, as he processes the day’s events, by the man's dogged personality. As soon as Douglas and Trisha explained the situation, the light in the boy’s eyes slowly returned, and before falling asleep he’d almost reverted fully to his usual levels of enthusiasm.

“Is he going to be alright?” Douglas asks, glad that he has the ability to move the topic away from himself.

Carolyn blinks at him, moving and stretching. She looks to her son, and a small smile not unlike Douglas’s own alights her face. “Arthur may seem like he has the disposition of a young child, but he truly does understand what’s about to happen. For his Skipper, he’ll do just about anything, I imagine. The thought of being poked with needles isn’t going to deter him. And for whatever comes next, I’m sure he’ll be ready for it.”

Douglas nods and leans back in his seat, staring at the ceiling above him. When all of this is over, Douglas is going to sleep for an age; the exhaustion is beginning to creep into the corners of his mind, making everything a bit fuzzy, and - if he’s honest - eating away at his resolve.

He’s done all that he can - every option has been exhausted, and now all they can do is wait. It kills Douglas, being forced to let things play out. While he’s come up with plans and waited them out before, there’s never been a time when the stakes were so high. And, frankly, the outlook so grim.

Lying in the hospital bed, Martin looks calm and peaceful now, but it’s a composure heavily undermined by his pale skin and the machines beeping all around him. It’s a serenity threatened to be interrupted at any moment by harsh coughing or rapid deterioration.

Douglas hates it. He _loathes_ this. Every single moment waiting is another moment gone for Martin. One he might never get a chance to get back.

He heaves a sigh, sitting up once again and cracking his neck. According to Wendy, it would seem everyone is depending on him; he can’t afford to think like that. Yet he can’t seem to help it. He’s never been a man to second guess himself. Then again, he’s never been a man in this kind of situation. Martin’s life is on the line and so far, it’s been primarily up to him to try to keep everything running smoothly. He honestly has no idea how Martin’s dealt with it up to this point.

Nurse White comes back in then, trailing a beaming Caitlin behind her.

“I’m a match!” Caitlin says, hugging her mother before taking a seat next to her.

Douglas smiles, nodding at her.

“One down, three to go. Who’s next?”

Casting a glance over to the sleeping steward at the front of the room, Douglas stands. “That’d be me, then.”

Trisha nods, holding the door for him as they leave the quiet room. The noise of the bustling hospital helps to wake Douglas up, and he looks around, watching nurses walk by, some calmly, one or two running.

He smiles and waves down at a little girl holding her father’s hand as they walk from a room towards the elevators and she smiles tentatively back at him, holding her toy bunny in a tighter hold than before. On the way past the room he’d seen her come from, Douglas sneaks a glance in, seeing a sleeping woman on the single bed. There are machines all around her - the scene looking almost exactly like the one he'd just left.

“Some people might call that rude,” Trisha says, though her smirk back at him tells him she’s not angry about his brief intrusion.

Douglas shrugs. “There are other people in this hospital. It seems like a ridiculous thing to realize, but when I’m sitting in Martin’s room, it’s a difficult fact to remember. Other patients and other families...”

“And other problems, yes,” Trisha says, leading them down a smaller, more empty corridor towards an open door. “I’ve heard this before, Douglas, and it always comes from people who’ve lost their drive. People who think their plight is just another unlucky and unfixable event in the grand scheme of life.”

Douglas cringes as he walks into the private room, seating himself on the bed there. “I certainly don’t think it’s unfixable.”

Trisha stares at him, but he refuses to make eyes contact, instead rolling up his sleeve for the blood drawing. “That much is obvious, but I can see now that you’ve done everything you think you can, you’re running out of steam. Relax,” she chastises as she inserts the needle.

“You’re tired.”

“Of course I am,” Douglas grouses. “Everything is happening so quickly, and I’ve hardly had any sleep. This is one of the most important times in my life; I need to be here for Martin, and I’m second guessing myself...” Douglas cuts himself off, staring at Trisha's hands at work. He certainly wasn’t expecting to say any of that, yet here he is, spilling his worries on a woman he hardly knows.

She presses a call button next to the bed, handing the blood sample to another nurse when the door opens. She crosses her arms and leans against the wall. “And now we wait.”

Douglas swallows, staring down at his hands. He’s never been so out of his element as he is right now, and he can tell that Trisha knows. The woman has to be at least a decade or two younger than him yet she’s somehow managing to look at him with the same knowing look that his mother used to don.

“You and Martin aren’t so different.”

Douglas sits up at that, staring at her incredulously. “You must be joking.”

One of her shoulders goes up in shrug. “You’re both prone to hiding your feelings until they cripple you. It’s not uncommon in the family and friends of patients, but I can tell you’re used to being the solid foundation when everything goes wrong; a man generally unaffected by an emergency, clear-headed above all else. In fact, I know that to be true - Martin’s told me some stories of your tiny little ‘airdot’.”

She smiles at him, but her eyes aren’t all in it. Douglas can see how attached she is to her patient, and he’s glad that Martin at least had her.

“You don’t know what to do with this down time,” she continues. “What you need to do is rest. Take the time to refuel. Don’t let doubts overwhelm you because, Douglas, you’ve done more than most do in order to help your friend. You may be second guessing yourself but I hope you realize you don’t need to. At this point, all there is to do is wait, and that’s ok. That’s a natural occurrence. It doesn’t mean everything’s going to fall apart; in fact, I think it means everything’s going in the right direction.”

Douglas blinks at her, marvelling at how profound and kind this tiny woman in front of him is. “I’m so glad Martin had you,” he admits, lips twitching up in a half smile when she looks up at him in surprise. “Truly. I’m glad he at least had someone, and the fact that it was you makes it even better. Thank you for being there for him.”

She grins at him. “It was my pleasure.”

She jumps up when the door beside her opens, and the nurse from before hands her a piece of paper. Trisha thanks her and closes the door, reading over the results.

Douglas frowns at her expression. “Prognosis, Nurse?”

She glances up at him and sighs. “I’m sorry, Douglas. There’s no way we can make it work. You two are completely incompatible.”

Douglas scoffs, running his hand down his face. “Of course not.”

Trisha is next to him immediately. “We’ve still got three more candidates. It’s alright.”

Douglas stand up quickly, brushing her comfort off. “I realize. It’s merely a bit disappointing.”

Trisha nods but doesn’t say anything else, instead leading the way out of the room. They walk back in silence, Trisha apparently seeming to realize Douglas needs the time to himself.

The return trek is exponentially shorter than the walk there, and Douglas grimaces as he opens the door. He clenches his jaw, ready to face the room of waiting hopefuls but is surprised to find another man in there, already speaking to the room’s occupants.

“-not sure about how effective this…” he turns, eyeing Douglas and Trisha. “Oh wonderful, the gang’s all here.” The man sticks his hand out to Douglas. “Doctor Hector Shaw.”

“Douglas Richardson.”

Shaw’s smile grows wider at the name. “Of course,” he says. He glances at Trisha. “Might I ask how your testing went?”

“The blood test alone showed incompatibility, I’m afraid,” Trisha says, nudging Douglas to take his vacated seat, now next to Simon’s. “We weren’t expecting you for a couple more hours, Doctor.”

“I would have been here sooner if I hadn’t had such a late night. I figured it was best to get started as quickly as possible, though, and came in as early as I could while still getting sufficient rest.”

“For which we thank you again, Doctor,” Simon says.

Shaw waves his hand. “It's nothing. Now, as I was saying. These procedures are risky and there’s always a chance they won’t be effective. We have to remember, also, that this isn't a cure. Martin will still need full transplants and the disease will still be with him after - this is merely a way to prolong his life until we can get to that point."

He pauses, looking around the room, trying to convey his warning. "That being said, if we can find three suitable donors, I will approve the surgeries, and I will use all the influence I've obtained up to this point to have them done as quickly as possible. I wouldn’t normally allow for this, but we have to work as quickly as possible, and right now this seems the best option.”

Wendy clears her throat, looking as if she’s about to raise her hand before thinking better of it and simply speaking. “That means it’s moving fast, doesn’t it?”

“Unfortunately yes,” Shaw says, pulling Martin’s chart from the end of the bed. “Martin’s case is one of the fastest I’ve seen.”

“Is there any particular reason?” Caitlin asks, staring at her sleeping brother as she speaks.

Shaw hesitates. “I would say the stress is part of it. He...never really relaxed. Most of my patients reach the point of acceptance early-on, with only a few bumps along the way. Martin, however, fluctuated manically. He got so wound up that his body couldn’t handle it.”

Everyone in the room sags at that, all of them thinking the same thing: if they’d somehow noticed sooner, Martin wouldn’t be here right now, requiring immediate emergency surgery.

The doctor sucks in a breath. “Well. Continuing on: the surgeries _each_  need to be performed as soon as possible. Martin won’t have much time to recover at all, and that, more than the surgeries themselves, is the most dangerous part of all of this. He needs to be kept motivated - his mindset is just as important as his physical state.”

Douglas nods, looking back at the lax face of his captain. He can’t donate a part of himself physically, but he can donate a part of his mind - his confidence and solidarity. He can do everything in his power to make Martin want to keep fighting and survive. He'll be here for Martin: steady as a rock. Douglas will be here to support the good thoughts, and to chase away the bad. Whatever Martin needs or wants emotionally from this point onward, Douglas will do his best to listen and oblige.

He hasn’t failed yet, and he doesn’t intend to.


	14. Chapter 14

A coughing fit wakes him up once more, and this time it’s Douglas holding the metallic bowl below him, pointedly looking away as Martin spits blood into it. When he’s done he leans back slowly, blinking against the sunshine coming through the window to his right.

“Sleep well, Sir?” Douglas asks, replacing the bowl gingerly on the bedside table.

“Surprisingly yes,” Martin says, voice raw from his coughing episode. He cringes as he shifts, still sore. “How long was I out for this time?”

“A few hours, only. Enough for the sun to rise, at least. Small mercies, I suppose; it was getting far too dreary in here.”

Martin’s lips twitch, almost ready to smile but not managing to find the energy. In fact, despite having just woken up, he’s extremely tired. “Where…” he starts, waving his hand around to encompass the room.

“Simon arrived awhile ago and took the others out to breakfast after his test.”

Martin hums, content on simply listening as Douglas fills him in.

“Your Doctor Shaw came in earlier,” Douglas continues, passing Martin the water he’s been staring at longingly for the past few minutes without realizing. Martin accepts it gratefully, holding the cup carefully in his slightly shaking hands. “He gave us a tentative green light on the partial transplants.”

Martin’s eyes, closed as he takes in the cool water, open wide. Honestly, he wasn’t expecting his rather conservative doctor to agree to what seems like a potentially drastic, quick-fix procedure. Douglas smiles at his expression.

“Does that mean you have three?” Martin asks. “I won’t let Simon or Caitlin put themselves at greater risk for-,”

“Martin, I understand. Truly. Yes, we have a third. Though, as Trisha said, we’ll need extensive testing to make sure the transplant will take. Testing they started even before your brother left with the others, and have been doing for quite awhile since.”

Martin glances around again. Neither Carolyn nor Arthur are here, and obviously Douglas isn't having "extensive tests" done on him...

“You can stop wondering, Captain: your third donor is Arthur. Carolyn is with him now.”

Martin blinks, refusing to look at Douglas. He shakes his head. “Douglas, I’m...honored. Really. But I can’t...I mean... _Arthur_. I can’t make him do that. He’s been through enough just with me being in here in the first place. I don’t-,”

“Really, Martin,” Douglas cuts him off for the second time in as many minutes. “Really.” The look in his eyes is a soft one, practically begging Martin to understand. The kind, imploring expression throws him off, and he does nothing but stare as Douglas continues. “Carolyn has discussed all of this with Arthur. He’ll be donating a kidney - the safest of the possible procedures. He, according to Carolyn - his _mother_ , mind - understands what he’s about to do. He wants so desperately to help you Martin, you’re not going to be able to stop him at this point.”

Martin relaxes back in his bed, realizing any more fighting is pointless. Merely speaking for so prolonged a period has already exhausted him to such a point that all he can do is stare out the window at the large city beyond. It’s sunny outside - the sky the light, pale blue color only attained in the early morning. It’s peaceful, this time of day. It manages to calm him in a way it hasn’t been able to in months.

“Martin?”

“Hm?”

Martin doesn’t turn his head to look at Douglas, but the man’s voice sounds somber now. He’d say uncertain, if he was talking to anyone but Douglas.

“I was expecting a bit more of a fight, really.” Martin twitches when Douglas grabs his wrist, taking his pulse even with the heart monitor only a small distance from him. If this wasn’t Douglas, a man who normally scoffs at sentiment, Martin would hazard a guess that the man simply wants a more physical confirmation of his current state of health. But it is Douglas, and that’s illogical by his standards - so out of the norm it almost makes Martin laugh. That is, until Douglas continues.

“Are you alright?”

Martin blinks rapidly, surprised by the question and not really sure how to respond anymore. He _is_ alright, strangely. Maybe not physically, but he feels more at ease than he has since this all began while sitting here next to his First Officer, talking without strain. “‘m just tired,” he mumbles finally, feeling as if he’s going to go under again.

Douglas hums, removing his hand from Martin’s wrist. “That’ll be the massive amount of medication they have you on, then. It would seem the unfortunate side effects of being kept alive by machines is that you suffer from consistent fatigue.”

Martin turns his head to look at Douglas. The last words were rather forced, and he can see the conflict on Douglas’s face at having tried to make a quip about the situation, even before the expression is wiped away.

He jumps a bit when the door opens, interrupting what he was about to say. Dr. Shaw walks in, smiling at Martin.

“Oh, good, Martin, you’re awake. It’s good to see you, despite the circumstances.”

Martin blinks up at him. “And you,” he mumbles.

Shaw looks at him in concern, before flipping through the notes on his clipboard and nodding once. “You were in quite a lot of pain while you were sleeping, Martin.” He looks at Martin, taking in the confusion on his face. “I don’t expect you to remember,” he explains. “You woke up for a bit and I allowed more medication, but it’s bound to make you extremely tired.”

Shaw takes the pen from the clipboard, scribbling something down before scratching his head with it. “Everything is moving very rapidly, Martin - it’s rather unprecedented. There’s no need to be worried, though; you’ve got quite the support system here. It means we can work just as quickly as the disease itself to help you.”

Martin nods, waiting for Shaw to continue.

“We’re planning on getting you into surgery as fast as possible. Starting today, actually.”

Martin sucks in a breath, and Douglas pipes in. “I know we’ve discussed this already, but is it the best idea to begin while Martin is obviously so tired?”

“I know it’s a hard thing to imagine, Mr. Richardson, but he’ll only continue to get worse if we don’t start now; it’s risk versus benefit. I realize it’s very quick. The fact is, though, that if we’re going to do this, it needs to happen soon. We’ve already got Mr. Shappey preparing for his surgery, and I’ve come to let you know that the technicians are on their way. I’m sorry to say we don’t have time to wait for the others to get back - I’ve managed to barely fit us in between two other surgeries. Do you have any questions about your procedure, Martin?”

Martin swallows, licking his lips nervously. “We...we have to go today?”

Shaw nods, eyes sympathetic. “With each passing day your health will only deteriorate. I’m going to be honest, Martin, because I know that’s what you like best. This is likely going to be the safest surgery of them all, but also the most trying. You won’t have much time for recovery, but when you make it through you’ll be one organ healthier than before. That, hopefully, will provide you with a bit of strength to face your next two surgeries.”

Martin continues licking his lips, staring at his hands on the bed. “Is there-, I might-, is there a chance I won’t...survive? This one?”

“There’s always that chance, Martin, especially with how weak you are right now.”

“Right. Of course.” Douglas reaches forward slowly, allowing Martin enough time to brush him off before placing his hand on Martin’s arm.

“You’re going to be fine, Martin,” Douglas says, voice firm. “We didn’t come this far for you to die in an attempted life-saving surgery.” He smirks, though his eyes aren’t quite in it. “Even _your_ luck isn’t that bad.”

Martin scoffs, but smiles all the same. He nods, looking back at Shaw.

“Do you have any other questions?”

“No. I-I think that’s it.” He takes a deep breath. “Yes. That’s it.”

Shaw nods tersely before walking back out, leaving Douglas and Martin alone.

“It’s fast, isn’t it? This is all happening very...fast.” He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t thought this would ever be a reality. But here he is, about to go under, either for the first or the last time. It’s a horrible thought. He thought he’d been ready but he truly isn’t. He doesn’t even get the chance to see his family again. He doesn’t get the chance to say anything more to everyone he cares about. Yet now he seems to have so many things to say; things he's only just thinking of; things he's only just coming to understand; things he's realizing he  _has_ to get out now, no matter what happens.

Douglas bends down to catch his eye. “Martin, breathe. In. Out. Good. Now again.”

Martin breathes again, blinking rapidly as he does so. “Douglas, I-,” he stops, not quite sure what to say. Perhaps he can say some of those things, even to just one of his friends.

“You’re not attempting to give me last words just in case, are you Martin?”

Martin smiles at the chastising tone of voice. “I don’t know,” he admits, hands squeezing tightly into fists. “I just. I want you to know that I trust you. With this. And I’m sorry for everything I did.”

“Martin, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it, at least not right now. Just clear your mind and relax.”

It’s the most soothing Martin has ever heard him, and it both comforts him and makes him more nervous. A slight shaking takes his body over as the door opens once more and two nurses walk in with a new machine, ready to fill him with medicine and put him to sleep. Martin takes a huge shuddering breath.

“I. I thought I was ok. With this. With dying. And in a way, I am, I mean...if it happens,” he lets out in a rush, ignoring the tightening of Douglas’s hand and the brief look of fear on Douglas’s face. “I want you to know this, though, Douglas, I don’t _want_ to die. I mean, if it happens, there’s nothing I or you or probably the doctors could have done. If it happens, it happens, but if it doesn’t I’ll be...I’ll be very happy.”

One of the technicians takes his free arm, inserting another needle into his elbow, preparing to fill him with anaesthesia. Martin coughs a bit but tamps it down. What he wants to say is far too important to be interrupted by his traitorous body.

“I can see that I’m not forcing you all into this. You want to be here and I can’t stop that - I could never stop that. You all love me and I love you all so much, and because of that I tried to block everything from you but I ended up hurting all of us. And I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry it took this long but I’m glad...” He takes a breath, feeling the drug beginning to relax his body. He blinks slowly.

“I’m glad I had a chance to see this all firsthand, even if it’s not the best of circumstances. I always felt so lonely, but I never had to, not really. A-and if I make it through this, I’ll never have to again. So…”

He shrugs, smiling briefly at Douglas. “So thank you. Thank you for not giving up on me.”

Douglas is staring at him with wide eyes, and his hand is gripping Martin’s harshly but he hardly feels it anymore. The technician lowers the bed to its flat position and Martin fights to keep his eyes open for just a little longer, because as soon as he closes his eyes he’ll have lost all control: anything could happen. He can either remain in darkness forever - or whatever happens in the afterlife - or wake up in this hospital bed once more, surrounded, unexpectedly (pleasantly), by everyone he loves.

He finds himself hoping, for the first time in months, for the latter.

He wants to come back to this - to Douglas watching him with concerned determination, to all of his friends and family here for him and him alone, to the optimism still filling the room, even after all that’s happened, all they’ve been told. Martin wants to live, and he hopes to whatever deities might exist as his eyes close that he does.

As if reading his thoughts, Douglas’s voice comes through to him, clipped and hurried. “I’ll await your return, Captain.”

He wants to chuckle, but finds that he can’t - the drug’s weight it restricting him. He wonders, briefly, if this is what acceptance is supposed to feel like. He doesn’t feel stress or hopelessness anymore; he feels light as a bird. He’s not sure if his body truly does or if his mind only intends to, but he smiles; because, as the darkness takes him to wherever he may end up, he feels like he’s flying.

Even with the burden of his disease at the back of his mind, he feels better than he ever has before. Better than he ever could have hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Believe it or not, this is the ending I've been intending all along. And, truly, it is the end, despite what some of you might think.**
> 
> **Once again, I want to thank everyone who's read this. Seeing all the kudos and comments on this story - on any of my stories, really - makes me very happy.**
> 
> **I hope you've all enjoyed this all the way through the end! Until next time, dear readers :)**


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